Brilliance and Bitterness
by Aqua Lion
Summary: They stand as enemies. One mind racing with frightening intellect, one soul burning with terrible anger. Enemies in a tournament that will decide the fate of humanity. All is as it should be. ...Right?
1. The Finalists

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Prologue: The Finalists

_A/N- This story is the prequel to Riding the Nightmare. I didn't mean to start it until RtN was _finished_, but I realized I was writing less 'enigmatic hints of the past' and more 'nobody's gonna get this without backstory.' So since I couldn't really write RtN the way I wanted it done until this story gets finished, I'm switching stories. So there._

_Disclaimer: I don't own OMF, I just borrow and abuse the characters, but Misty and Ratchet are mine, all mine!

* * *

_

The mood in the room was sober. How anyone could've expected anything different was quite uncertain, but...

"The tournament is scheduled to begin August 15th, 2097, and is expected to take place over two months. It will be held in various arenas—on Earth, Luna, Mars, and Europa—depending on random draws by the competing pilots. Because the number of candidates is uneven for standard brackets, and in order to ensure the victor wins through skill rather than luck, it will be a triple-elimination tournament." Unspoken was the other factor. _In order to increase ticket sales, and thus profit, the tournament must last as long as is feasible_.

The man, some nameless and faceless WAR intern, read almost mechanically. The occupants of the room were not all necessarily listening—the same orders had come to each of them over their work terminals that morning.

The reception was Major Kreissack's idea of a show. Little media was permitted in the room, but the fact that it had happened at all would be enough for the public. It certainly wasn't for the competitors to get acquainted—many already knew each other, and they were the ones casting the majority of distrustful looks at their peers.

"Ten finalists for the position will compete. Cossette Akira."

She had once been imposing, but injury had placed her in a wheelchair, robbing her of stature and much respect. The mind behind it all still functioned, and her bitterness at so many people treating her as an inferior would make her a dangerous and unpredictable foe. Kreissack sought her out and smiled as her blue eyes flickered about the room, daring someone to cast a derisive look in her direction.

"Jean-Paul Delaney."

He stood in the back of the room, emerald gaze not quite focused on the intern, a tall and wiry incarnate of indifference itself. His strength was his intelligence, not his physical ability, and he would not be expected to last long. Yet the competitors would watch him with caution. His enigmatic ways would make him one of the hardest fighters to prepare for.

"Christian Devroe."

His hands were clenched at his sides as if he might erupt at any moment. Kreissack knew this to be true. Christian was very good, but his skill was offset by that boiling rage... he would act rashly, and he would be defeated. Kreissack savored the thought of his failure, though he knew many fans—mostly females awed by the striking blonde—would not be so pleased.

"Crystal Devroe."

What was she playing at? She stood apart from her brother, but without him how could she expect to last any further than the three guaranteed rounds? She was no warrior, and really, wasn't her brother's presence enough for that pathetic family? No matter. She had been qualified to compete, and he would enjoy her failure just as much as her brother's.

"Shirro Hiritsu."

He was easy to pick out, considering the light shining from his bald head. Legend had it he used Mr. Kleen to achieve the effect. Kreissack wouldn't put it past him. Shirro was a favorite, still strong and skilled despite his advancing age, and he was no threat to the Major. He was optimistic, and preferred to sit back and let things work themselves out. A fool, but a very useful fool... perhaps, though, not completely foolish. Hadn't it been his idea to hold this tournament, when he was one of the best fighters under consideration?

"Ibrahim Hothe."

He seemed confident, and rightly so. He wasn't necessarily a _fighter_, but he was certainly an _athlete_, and he knew the HARs inside out. All things considered, knowing the HARs might be the most important part of this whole tournament. Kreissack supposed it wouldn't be so bad if he won. The man's obsession with the machines made him easily controlled.

"Raven Shikoba."

Kreissack's bodyguard stood supremely confident, positioned in such a way that the room's climate control blew his dark hair in front of his face. He did have a flair for the dramatic on occasion. Raven was almost certainly the greatest fighter there, and were it a hand to hand battle rather than in HARs he would have little trouble succeeding. The machines evened the field somewhat, but Kreissack was well aware his puppet was still operating with excellent odds.

"Milano Steele."

His deep brown eyes could not remain focused, but it was not the nervous flickering of some of the others. Even in this carefully controlled environment he sought out the slightest hint of a security threat. He was good at what he did, but Kreissack would be just as happy if he stayed there. He put up a noble front, yet there was an undercurrent of craftiness to him. Kreissack could not claim to be comfortable with either facet.

"Angel T'au'lin"

The intern had stumbled slightly over the last name. Kreissack let his eyes move to the young woman, her silvery white hair granting her an aura of unreality. Nobody could understand why she was there. She wasn't even an employee of WAR! In truth, Kreissack himself could not explain why he had allowed her in, but... her jade eyes lifted, as if sensing his gaze on her, and any doubts fled.

"Steffan Tommas."

What a pathetic brat. He looked as confident as Raven, but he was no more than a baby. The fact that his qualifications were superb despite his age only made the others resent him more, and what did such a child know of fighting? Barely worthy of thought. He could not win.

Ten finalists. Ten HARs. Kreissack looked around at them and smiled. They didn't have to know the forces at work behind the scenes to know the opportunity each of them had here. Each with their own motives, but motives no longer mattered. Combat would determine the victor. A regression, perhaps, into a less civilized—and less complicated—age. One he most wholeheartedly approved of.

The man finished reading and exited, leaving the competitors to stare at each other with renewed hostility. And, on a few occasions, curiosity. Most of _that_ was directed at the girl Angel, who stoically ignored their gazes. That was fine. There was no need for anyone here to get too friendly with anyone else.

In fact, Kreissack would be just as happy if they remained hostile. It made things so much easier.

Two years. Two years for training, preparation, and more training and more preparation. And then they would take to the arena. And nobody knew what might come out of it...

Well, only one person. But Kreissack wasn't about to share the knowledge.


	2. Something To Prove

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 1: Something To Prove

* * *

Cossette Akira sighed deeply as she watched the techs scurrying over her HAR. It was an Electra, of course. What else could she possibly fight in? Especially when the machine was so hard to acquire. People would have to stop and take notice, and the competitors who weren't quite careful enough about their preparations would have a hellish time trying to deal with the machine's abilities.

Its _shocking_ abilities, she mused with a faint smile.

She wheeled closer to the bot. Jeff Magnusson—better known to the world as Ratchet—was the first to notice. No surprise. The other techs were simply WAR grunts, available to any pilot who needed the help. But Ratchet was _her_ head tech... an expert on the Electra and, she had admitted grudgingly on more than one occasion, a good friend.

"Heya, she-demon, what brings ya out t' this grease pit?" he called out, largely ignored by the other techs as he rode the maintenance crane to the ground. "Yer s'posed to be out bein' respectable."

She could never help falling into the comfortable banter, and there was little to be done but accept it. Sometimes it almost felt like the old Cossette was coming back, surfacing for a few moments to give some joking retort. "I took advantage of superior position and sent myself home early. How are things going?"

"They're fine, if slower'n I'd like." He frowned. "Ya banged my baby up but good in that last training run, what'd ya _do_ to her anyway?"

Cossette winced and unconsciously rubbed her arm. Her last training run was why the Electra was in the shop just now, and the memory was more than a little painful. "I ran the Gauntlet. Nobody told me it hadn't dried out yet." The Gauntlet, one of WAR's most difficult training facilities, usually wasn't a problem for Cossette. The _problem_ came when it rained, turning a fair stretch of the course into sticky muck. Most HARs had little trouble beyond slightly impaired movement on that stretch, but Electra's pointed, tapering talons made it a machine that needed a rather high ground density. Mud did not fit the criteria, and she'd become rather hopelessly stuck.

That hadn't stopped the fighter drones from coming in. And that had been _painful_, dammit.

"Yeah," Ratchet agreed, "that can be a problem. Ya'd think they'd have signs or something. Oh well. We'll have 'er good as new by sundown tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Cossette nodded. Quicker than she'd expected, honestly. She tried not to saddle her tech with unreasonable expectations... unlike some of the _other_ pilots. Bruce McEllis—whose contribution to the legions of techie nicknames was Plug—had been screaming his head off from the next hangar for the better part of the week. The Tommas kid, Steffan, wasn't demanding anything unreasonable. Perfection was what all the pilots were expecting from their techs. The problem was that Steffan wanted perfection _now_.

As far as Cossette was concerned, perfection tomorrow was just fine. "Keep up the good work then, and I guess I'll let you get back to it."

"Appreciate it." He flashed her a grin, wide and genuine, then vaulted onto the crane. A moment later he was shouting orders as if he'd never been gone.

Cossette wheeled out awhile later. Back 'home,' which at the moment was a hotel room in Tulsa. The tournament still loomed far away, more than a year and a half in the distance, and it could not come soon enough. The waiting game, she mused, was a game anybody could play... but she could handle it. No amount of waiting could overcome that single, exhilarating fact. Finally she had the chance she was looking for... the chance for Ganymede, yes, but that possibility was secondary in her mind.

She would win. And then she'd see who dared insult her for her injury.

* * *

Jean-Paul Delaney squeezed his emerald eyes shut for a moment, fighting nausea. It was, he knew, his body's way of telling him he was doing something really stupid, but he disregarded it as usual. He already _knew_ he was doing something really stupid. Hanging upside-down in a HAR's knee actuator was not exactly a natural position for a human body.

A noise from the outside penetrated his thoughts. A shout... he silently thanked his chief tech for the distraction and worked his way out of the actuator. "Come again?"

"I asked if you've found anything yet." Misty Kurosawa had removed a large portion of the armor over the Katana's chest, allowing her access to the central computer systems, the 'brain' of the bot for all intents and purposes. "Because there's nothing wrong with the computer."

"Wonderful." Jean-Paul hadn't _wanted_ to have to rip the Katana apart to find out why it had a bad knee, but it was looking more and more like it would be necessary. "I haven't found anything."

The problem had cropped up last month. Jean-Paul had ignored it at first, though spending so much time jacked into a bot with a bad knee had caused _him_ to start walking with a slight limp. His last practice run had put an end to that attempt as the knee completely locked. Dragging the thing back to the hangar had been an _experience_. Not one he wanted to repeat any time soon...

Misty groaned. "I'll start working my way down then." If the problem was in the connecting circuitry, between the actuator and the main computer, they could be looking for weeks. Might as well get started—

"Hey! Delaney, you in here?"

Jean-Paul turned towards the shout, slightly startled. Less by the yell than by the person who'd done the yelling. "You're out late, Falks."

"Working hours man, working hours!" Michael Falks was the head of R&D's engineering department. Jean-Paul saw more than his fair share of time working with that group, 'market analyst' or no. Falks, unlike most scientists, rather _liked_ the quiet genius who'd been outsmarting him for the last four years. Jean-Paul didn't exactly return the sentiment, but Falks' willingness to admit when he was wrong earned him a fair bit of respect.

Jean-Paul hadn't thought a cordial working relationship was cause for the man to show up at the hangar at one in the morning. "Yes, well I'm working too. Could you make this quick?"

"You gotta come with me, sorry. But I've got a little something that might solve your problems with that Katana there."

That got Jean-Paul's attention. He was on the floor in thirty seconds, flipping his flame-red hair out of his eyes and wiping a few grease stains from his face. Misty hit the ground fifteen seconds later. "How can you know how to fix it if we don't even know what's wrong with it?"

"I never said anything about fixing it, just solving your problems."

Jean-Paul had a feeling he knew where this was going. "Falks, if this is about that ridiculous Shadow Project you've got going, I'm tired of having to tell you it's not poss—"

"We got _around_ all the impossibilities you pointed out," Falks cut in, his eyes shining with fanatic zeal. The same way he'd looked every time he so much as mentioned the Shadow Project, ever since it started three years ago. "The Shadow's _finished_, Jean-Paul."

Jean-Paul did not like surprises. "It's _what_?"

* * *

Engineering's main lab was indistinguishable from any other WAR hangar, other than the scribbled 'crazee engineers at wurk' sign hanging on the door. Scribbled in purple crayon no less. (The engineers did like living up to their reputation.) Once entering, on the other hand, it became obvious this was no normal HAR storage. In fact, it was rare for there to be any HARs there at all.

Today, there were two.

Misty stopped in the doorway, her dark eyes wide with amazement. "_Kirei_..." Jean-Paul knew Misty well enough to know that when she lapsed into her native Japanese, it was something major.

He agreed with her assessment, in this case. _Beautiful_. The torso was mostly hidden by a huge armor plate that curved over the front and the back, giving a distinctive triangular appearance to the chest and shoulders. Beneath the plate, the HAR was sleek and streamlined. Arms and legs were made of a flexible metal tubing, fashioned into workable limbs by thick armor plates. Hands and feet were like wicked talons. The head assembly was mostly hidden in shadow, shrouded by an armor plate that reached up and over from the back and curved into a hood. Overall, Shadow seemed a good name for the machine...

Even without taking its special abilities into account.

Falks was prattling about technical details. "We based the chassis off the Frost EHE bot, since it was a good model for the armor. Relatively simple for the generators to reproduce, but functional."

Jean-Paul shook his head absently, then looked down at the shorter scientist and frowned. "Why are you showing me? This was supposed to be classified."

"Oh, come on. You've helped us enough on the project—"

"Mostly by telling you you'd gone crazy for trying it."

"—I figured even Kreissack couldn't complain. Heck, he's the one that sent me to you at first, though I don't think I was supposed to do anything but ask about hypotheticals... _anyway_, you were right all along about the particle definition tech being too imprecise. We didn't _use_ particle definition. The boys over in Section D came up with this nifty new—"

"Details later Falks. What's this got to do with my Katana?" Jean-Paul had a feeling he knew where this was going, too.

He was right. "Well, see, Kreissack kept the Shadow Project under wraps because he didn't want people to know about it if it bombed. But now that it worked we'll have a rough time getting decent publicity... especially when the talk's _already_ tournament, tournament, tournament. And since you were bitching about the Katana even before the knee busted..."

Jean-Paul groaned. He should've known better than to tell Falks, of all people, how much the Katana's bulky blades had annoyed him at first. "So in other words, you want me to pull a cheap publicity stunt for you. Please, Falks. I don't even pull cheap publicity stunts for _me_. You should talk to Shirro."

"Yeah, I could, but think about it... the media'll have a field day with The Mysterious Creepy Dude fighting in The Mysterious Creepy Bot, maybe enough of a field day that they don't bother trying to _talk_ to you." Jean-Paul had to admit that sounded attractive, though Falks' assessment of him was another story entirely. "Besides... there's a year left until the tournament, and the Shadow... well, it's not the easiest bot to learn. There's one person in this tournament that I think could be up to speed on the thing by next August, and the goofy geezer isn't the one."

Jean-Paul frowned and did not respond, simply staring up at the Shadow. His entire logical side—which was a damned good chunk of his brain—was screaming at him for just how stupid this idea was. Even considering taking a practically untested bot into combat, risking the tournament on how well the unproven technology would work...

But, he realized, Falks was also putting an awful lot on the line here—the Shadow Project and perhaps his own career. If Jean-Paul performed well in the tournament, it would also be a vindication for the Shadow. If he performed poorly...

Jean-Paul had enough respect for Falks to believe he wouldn't pull a stunt like this lightly. He _believed_ in this bloody impossible contraption. And if he were honest, the use of the totally unknown machine would be an incredible advantage if he could learn to use it right.

_What can it hurt? If it doesn't work out, I'll go back to the Katana._ "I'll give it a shot."

Falks grinned widely. "Atta boy."


	3. Flames of War

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 2: Flames of War

* * *

"Incoming fighters. Northwest, ETA fifteen seconds."

"On it."

The massive machine whirled with a grace that should not have been possible at its size, gathering itself into a crouch. It wore a coat of generic gray primer that would not camouflage it from the incoming craft, though by the time they were in firing range their sensors would have locked onto the HAR anyway. The fighters appeared on its radar, and the machine crouched to allow many of the shots to pass harmlessly overhead.

For an instant, the machine became dark and faintly transparent, and its image flickered. Like a monster of smoke a faint image of the HAR rose up from its crouch, though the machine itself remained on the ground, solidifying once more as the projection cleared and vaulted into the air.

The low-flying craft could clear the area very quickly, but not quickly enough, especially when they had been anticipated. A shadowy claw ripped through two hulls, fading out of existence before the third could return fire. Were the fighters more than preprogrammed drones the pilot might have circled back for vengeance... but they were not, and the remaining craft vanished over the horizon.

"Go!"

"I know that!"

The HAR which had so effectively dealt with the fighters cannonballed forward, regaining its feet with slight awkwardness but not falling. The sprint took it from the area of loose earth onto firmer ground, but the stretch of concrete presented its own challenges. Turrets popped up on either side.

The HAR had no projectile weapons which it might have used to eliminate these new threats, and threw itself into a roll as bullets streamed towards it. Again it faded out ever so slightly, and this time two projections sprang forth, one to either side. These paralleled the run of the real HAR for nearly five seconds, smashing turrets to scrap along the way, before the pilot could no longer focus and had to let them dispel.

A final turret sprang from the earth directly in front and this time the machine jumped, landing squarely on the emplacement. The few hundred tons of HAR, focused into monofilament talons, destroyed the turret with no need for further effort from the pilot.

"There's still the HAR."

"How many times have I run this course?"

Beyond the turret field was an open stretch of concrete which looked like it ought to be no trouble. Of course, a cakewalk had no place in the Gauntlet. As the HAR entered the new area a holographic image flickered before it, gradually solidifying. This was the only part of the course that was not real—turrets and drones were easily replaced, HARs not so much. Sensors on the machine running the course would register damage from the holographic adversary.

In this case it was a Pyros, and the HAR hesitated. Then it raced forward with reckless abandon, seeming to take even the hologram by surprise.

"Sir? What are you—"

The pilot did not respond. _Stop it. Quickly. No fire._ Two projections were thrown out, and one landed a successful flurry of punches before fading away. The second was not so lucky as the Pyros raised one barrel arm and smashed it across the front of its triangular armor plate.

Damage fed back to the original machine as the projection flickered out of existence, but then it was in range itself. _No fire._ A vicious punch to the Pyros' shoulder—the impact given substance by special programming—sent shards of illusory armor raining to the ground, but not enough to deter the machine. Its other arm came up and flame engulfed the HAR, which immediately went deathly still.

Some time later, the fire stopped, and the frozen HAR was finally able to move again. It did move. Slowly. Dejectedly. Exiting the Gauntlet, and returning to the hangar, cloaked with the grim specter of defeat.

* * *

Jean-Paul awoke, yanked his helmet off, and stalked out of the pilot room. Misty had already left the control center and was rushing to meet him. "Sir, are you—"

"Shut up!" he snarled. "And how many times have I told you not to call me sir!" He stormed by her without waiting for an answer. If her feelings were hurt, he could smooth it over later. He was angry now. Entirely too angry to attempt any contact with civilized society, especially as he had an image to keep up. An image which did not have any room for the vicious temper he was prone to when he screwed up.

_Fire_.

Dammit, though! It hadn't even been real fire! The HAR's programming could imitate physical impacts, but it could not make the pilot feel the heat of the flames. He wanted to say the problem was worse than he'd thought, but it would be a lie. He knew full well even the image of fire would lock him up in fear.

Good god, he was one of the ten finalists for Ganymede. He was quite possibly the most intelligent man to ever draw breath. And he was on a mission to destroy the greatest tyrant humanity had ever known—though he would rarely put his vengeful goals in such a noble-sounding frame.

With the whole power of WAR arrayed against him, how the hell could he let himself be so fatally crippled by a stupid little thing like pyrophobia?

He made it back to his quarters without drawing any further attention and threw himself onto the bed, forcing his body to remain still. Much as he wanted to scream and rage and throw things, that was unacceptable. He was good at projecting calm under all circumstances. Good, but not perfect. Only the constant forcing back of such emotions could allow him to achieve perfection.

"_You cannot conquer your spirit, and attempting to can only cause you pain. You must be honest with yourself, and you will have strength."_

Jean-Paul stiffened. "It isn't that easy, sensei," he mumbled, though the speaker was half a world away, in Katsushai. Or perhaps he was on another pilgrimage, like the one that had brought him to Jean-Paul's home.

Home.

He wanted to go home.

"_Someday you may have to leave this place, little fox. Never forget it, it is a deep and important part of you. But at the same time you cannot always count on the ice and snow which you so dearly love, for they will not always be there. You must learn to be at peace in any environment."_

He wondered what his sensei would have said about his pyrophobia. Feeling himself beginning to calm, he let his mind wander, imagining. "Little fox," he whispered to the empty room, "why do you struggle against the elements?" God knew he'd heard that one enough as it was—hated nickname and all. Of course that would be sensei's response.

But fire was more than an element. Sensei had said it himself. Jean-Paul was not one for self-deception—he knew he was a creature of the ice, and fire was the antithesis of everything within him.

And there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn't go home, not now. He would hardly be welcomed there anyway—the tournament publicity must have reached even home by now, and the country was unified by nothing more than its hatred of WAR. _When I win. When I win, and bring about WAR's fall. Then I can go home._

_...But I cannot win like this._

He stood, and was pleased that he no longer had to fight his physical impulses. The rage at his failure had faded, and his calm movements came easily and naturally. He would have to leave, to gather some materials. By the time he returned maybe he would find Misty and apologize. She had not deserved his anger, and he knew he could not find a better tech.

He did not let himself dwell on the defeat. He would force himself to improve. He had no other options.

* * *

Cossette dreamed that night. It had been a hard day of training—she had left the Gauntlet, as it had ceased to be a challenge. There were other courses, and while they did not have the Gauntlet's reputation, their unfamiliarity would make them more useful. She would blame the rigors of Scorpion Ridge for her dreams. But she didn't think that honestly was the case.

She had been on Ganymede, victorious. Still in her HAR, she stood high upon a mountain, savoring a moment of solitude after her victory. It was only deserved, wasn't it?

Sensors had detected smoke. It had begun to rain fire... _what's happening?_

She looked up just in time to see the sun explode. And really, that would have been quite bad enough as it was. But from within the explosion, a dark shape was emerging, vaguely humanoid. She could not make out details... but it was massive.

And it was_ laughing._

She took a step back, readying herself for combat, not knowing what she could do against the monster but knowing she had to try. She hadn't had the chance. She had awakened.

A single word ran through Cossette's mind. It burned there, a mix of fear and revulsion, and it would not leave her alone.

_Nova_.


	4. Nothing To Fear

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 3: Nothing To Fear

* * *

Scorpion Ridge was a full holo course, not real and solid like the Gauntlet. This certainly made life easier for Cossette's techs. Cossette herself, on the other hand, wasn't certain she liked it. The flexibility of the projections meant there was more variety to the course, but the programming which simulated damage and impacts was spotty at best and could only register physical blows and solid projectiles. It was rather annoying to take a hit from a concussion cannon or fireball and feel _nothing_. 

Ratchet was in the control center, guiding her through, but she'd asked that he not give her the normal reports on enemies. In the field it was fine to have that extra set of eyes watching the opponent, but in the tournament the techs would be limited to keeping the pilot up to date on their own critical systems. Best to get used to it now—though it made the course much more difficult than it was designed to be.

The course lived up to its name, the primary hazard being giant scorpions crawling about and firing laser bolts at any HAR foolish enough to invade their domain. As she tossed balls of electricity about they vanished under her onslaught, but her armor was showing moderate damage from simulated laser hits she could not feel.

That was also dangerous—how did you adjust for attacks when your only sign they were coming was an updating schematic on a heads-up display?

"Ya better be careful, she-demon. One more hit on that upper left arm, it's gonna come off."

"I'd love to see this software simulate _that_."

"Uh-uh. Ya wouldn't."

She decided not to argue that point and just keep the arm, which would be so much easier for all concerned. Redoubling her efforts, the scorpions didn't stand a chance.

_They fall like insects before me._

_They're arachnids._

_Oh shut up._

She'd lapsed into the habit of talking to herself while jacked in. She was certain quite a few psychiatrists would have something to say about that, but really, why was it so wrong? It helped her focus to go over things in her mind, even such irrelevant things as what sort of animal the holograms represented. Kept her grounded in reality.

Amusing, that holding conversations with herself should help her sanity. But it didn't take much in the way of mental dexterity to keep up with Ratchet, who was occupied with his monitoring duties, so she was left to discuss matters with herself.

Sensors screamed a warning as she neared the end of the canyon. It appeared the course had stopped generating the scorpions—a bit early, which told her she was in for a difficult fight.

Her theory was confirmed as she saw a Katana crouched near the exit, blades crossed as it waited. While she hadn't actually looked at the programming—and probably couldn't make sense of it if she did, her specialty was design, not artificial intelligence—the holographic bots on Scorpion Ridge seemed a bit more competent than those in the Gauntlet. Perhaps it was because it took so much more to _reach_ them in the Gauntlet.

"Engaging," she reported shortly. It would take time for the Katana to get out of that crouch, so she could at least get the first hit in, if she played things correctly.

The tesla coils in Electra's arms hummed slightly as she charged them and released several spheres of lightning. It was a bit dangerous to throw so many at once—the coils themselves were easily able to handle it, but the shielding systems could be overloaded if the voltage was kept too high too long.

She admitted she wouldn't have done it on the Gauntlet, but if she did fry a system here, well, it kept the techs from getting lazy.

All three of the lightning balls scattered over the Katana, which was already rising as she came charging in. There was damage, but it didn't look like anything critical. As the Katana sprinted at her with blades flashing she slowed, spreading the Electra's arms and letting lightning arc between them. Sparks shot forward to deter the Katana's advance.

Except, not so much. The other HAR tore through the field of sparks and slammed into her with a shattering impact.

A _soundless_ impact, which made it a bit surreal, but that was something she could worry about once she picked herself up off the ground. Being immobile with a Katana standing over you was never a good way to keep your HAR in one piece. Its blades crashed down on her while she was rising and she blocked with the Electra's still intact right arm.

Much to the Katana's detriment, it did not choose to just back off and let her stand, instead trying to angle the blades and give decapitation another shot. _Artificial intelligence isn't_, she reminded herself. A real pilot would know better than to let the Electra, of all bots, inside its defenses. One pointed arm came up and jammed between two of the armor plates over the Katana's chest, and she charged the coil as high as it would go.

The programming didn't seem to account for the spasmodic jerking a HAR undergoing Electra's shock treatment ought to experience, but the damage was clear. When she decided she's stressed the shielding long enough, the Katana staggered back and stood motionless, stunned from the onslaught.

She wasn't about to let it off so easily. The low charge always running through the coils gave Electra's punches a bit of extra power as it was, and the sharp claws on the feet could tear armor almost as well as monofilament. Cossette wasted no time, and the hologram was fading out well before the Katana ought to have recovered from the stun.

She left the course victorious. This time.

* * *

"Watch yerself, she-demon. Wasn't an easy run, ya must be achin'." 

She shrugged off Ratchet's concern as he helped her off the jack table into her wheelchair. It was true, she'd taken a beating, and were it a real fight rather than holograms she'd be having trouble with phantom pain for days. Perhaps the pilot wasn't _really_ injured by attacks to the HAR, but it certainly felt like it sometimes.

"Everthin' okay?"

"Fine. They were just holograms."

"Yeah, true, but the simulator tech ain't the most gentle." He was hesitant for a moment and did not leave, which told her something else was bothering him. "Boss..."

"Is something wrong, Ratchet?"

"That's what _I_ was gonna ask ya, t'be honest." He frowned, then sat on the table and studied her carefully. "Ya got really beat up out there."

"I know. It's easy to lose track of what's happening on these holographic—"

"Yeah, boss, but ya were doin' better earlier. Ya've seemed kinda distracted this week, an' I'd like to know why. If I can help, y'know?"

His words gave Cossette pause. She'd been having the dreams again, the dreams of Nova... every night it became deeper, more involved, yet the dark figure did not become any clearer. "It's nothing." She could hardly be expected to tell him that it was a _dream_ impairing her scores on this course. Eventually, the nightmare would go away, and she'd be back to form.

_Except he _can_ help you, stupid_.

He was still watching her with skepticism and she decided to test the waters. "Well, there has been something on my mind. It's a little strange though, I hadn't realized it was interfering with my fighting..."

"Anythin' I can help with? Ya know, I wanna see ya win this thing, and that ain't gonna happen if yer mind keeps wanderin' while ya fight." He winked. "Bein' the tech fer the leader of Ganymede, now _that_ oughta be good for business."

She allowed herself a grin. "I don't know, maybe you _can_ help with it... I'm sure you hear a lot more techie gossip than I do."

"Ain't much gossip that gets by me. What's on yer mind?"

"Have you heard anything about the Nova Project?"

He fell silent immediately, and she knew the waters were dark and dangerous indeed from the expression on his face. It took a few moments for it to clear. "A bit."

Now Cossette was worried, but also interested. "Nothing you can tell me though?"

"Eh, s'pose it can't hurt. I mean, ever'one knows... see, a buncha techs got pulled from the ranks, ta work on the project, and mostly they ain't ever been seen since. A couple've showed up sayin' they left, though they couldn't talk about it an' they didn', but then not too long after quittin', they all died. All accidents, mind. Nobody notices, cuz the ones who're on the project don't show up on the project in the databases. Just says they're doin' special work. But around the techie sector we know, ya don't take the Nova job. Not if ya can possibly get outta it."

Cossette had the dream again that night. This time, when the dark form emerged from the exploding sun, it was carrying Ratchet's corpse.

* * *

The flicker of the candle cast its erratic glow over the dark room. There was some warmth as well, as the small flame was close... he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, slowly, trying to calm himself. He had long since achieved peace with the darkness. The leaping flame was merely an added element. Its warmth and light would reach out to him, flowing through him. It was not hostile. It was not to be feared. It was not... 

Jean-Paul shuddered and jerked forward and blew the candle out.

Leaning back against the wall, he was grateful for the darkness. It hid the shame burning in his face. "How bad?" he asked hoarsely.

The light of the stopwatch briefly illuminated Misty's face. "Fifteen seconds."

It seemed like a very long time to have been seated there in the presence of fire, but he knew it was no victory. A single tiny candle, and he'd had his eyes closed half the time. "Not good enough." His voice was low, almost dangerous. "Not nearly good enough..."

She did not answer. He'd not wanted her here at all, she had sort of barged in on him to ask something about his Shadow and upon seeing what he was doing, insisted that she help or he'd burn the place down. It had been very insulting, and she'd been very right. At least with Misty's help the _candles_ got lit instead of the floor.

But she obviously couldn't figure out what he was trying to do. "Sir—"

"Stop calling me that," he scowled, "and light it again."

He could picture her confused expression in his mind, though he could not see it in the darkness. "You have been doing this for an hour. I don't think it is accomplishing anything."

He was silent for a long time. _When you fear something, confront it_. It had worked, at home, with sensei. But how many times had they gone through this ritual today? And he was no closer to freeing himself from the visceral terror of the dancing flames. "...Maybe you're right." But that was it then. If he could not conquer this fear... he would fail. There was Raven in his Pyros of course... even assuming he could afford to give up one match, he doubted his draws would be lucky enough to keep him out of the Fire Pit. Yes. Failure was inevitable if he could not fight the fear.

She must have sensed the darkening of his mood. "Sir, I think—"

"—Misty, I keep telling you—"

"—Would you _listen?"_ Jean-Paul blinked. He'd never heard Misty raise her voice before, and he listened. "I think I know of a better way to handle this."

He looked to where she was and felt their gazes meet for a moment. _Better?_ A better way. Surely something had to be better than sitting in the dark, frightened by nearby candles. "Go on..."

She flipped on the lights. He was on the floor, in the corner where there was not much of anywhere to run, and somewhere along the line she'd stopped standing and was now sitting on his bed. "Everyone knows you're more comfortable in cooler climates, they have since you sabotaged the climate control at the Tallahassee HQ three years ago."

He could not resist a weak smile. That had been a glorious day—especially as he'd been transferred out of that hellhole as soon as Kreissack got word. Rumor had it some of the pipes had been frozen for weeks. "Very true."

"We can presume that your opponents will take this into account when they win arena draws..."

"Trust me, I've thought of that."

"Of course. More to the point, I'm assuming that your predisposition towards the cold has at least some part in your fear of fire."

A frown crossed his face. _She's good_. "I'd imagine." No sense explaining how deeply a mere 'predisposition' ran. No sense explaining how the fear was tinged with outright hate and disgust.

"If you were in a cold place, would the fire bother you so much?"

As a response, he gestured to the burnt out candle... then the climate control panel on the wall, which placed the room at barely sixty degrees Fahrenheit.

She understood. "All right, but if you could fight fire with ice..."

"Misty, get to the point."

"The Shadow is based off the Frost's chassis. Shadow's only real special equipment is the shadow projector, which takes up a lot of room, but many spread out elements rather than completely taking up any one area. If we could find one of the minor nitrogen cores off a Frost, I'm certain I could work around the projector and install it."

Jean-Paul was silent. He'd never actually seen a Frost in action—most of them were presently poking around Mercury—but knew that with all three of its nitrogen cores active it could freeze even an erupting volcano. Even if the Shadow could only carry a minor one...

He looked up at her. "Do it."

"I ought to warn you, it will be expensive to acquire the parts."

"I don't care." WAR paid its top people well, and it wasn't as if he actually spent much of it. It meant nothing. "Make it happen."

She nodded. "Very well."


	5. The Hunt Is On

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 4: The Hunt Is On

* * *

It was harder than she'd thought.

Misty had expected to have the nitrogen core installed on the Shadow within a month. Here it was December already, and she'd yet to even find the part. This was very upsetting. Yes, the Frost was rare, and as no competitors had shown interest in fighting with the rather slow and clumsy EHE bot, there were few spare parts to be had. Still! It shouldn't be taking _this_ long. But it was, and it made her impatient.

Jean-Paul was impatient also. He didn't show it, of course. He did not press her, and for that she would continue to serve loyally, even when he snapped at her and made her victim to his rage. She sensed she was the only person who knew anything of Jean-Paul but the calm exterior he preferred to show the world. Something about that knowledge made her proud.

_I am important._ Her smile turned bitter._ But I am also unable to have done what I want done!_

Jean-Paul's impatience manifested itself in ways other than actually griping at his tech. She'd made the mistake of mentioning that acquiring parts tended to depend on location, and ever since, he'd been rapidly tiring of any new training course they attempted, keeping almost constantly on the move. These shifts tended to coincide with her determining the core could not be found in their current location.

And more than that, she could feel his desperation, coiled up inside him. She could see it in his fighting. He was not making mistakes, his style had not changed, but the blows became more vicious, the strength behind them borne of frustration rather than the mere will to win. In truth, if she never found the core, he might do better in the tournament, but she wasn't going to fail him like that.

So here they were, at a training course on Luna. Misty had suggested it. He had not argued. Perhaps he'd guessed the suggestion was not an idle one...

The trek to the hangar known locally as Fort Box was long, but not difficult. She hadn't really _wanted_ to resort to the black market, but it had a strong presence here—unusual, for a WAR-controlled territory. It was probably the best shot she'd get, and she was going to take it.

After all, quite apart from pleasing her boss... if she never found a nitrogen core, how would she know if she was truly good enough to pull such a modification off?

She had to find it. Had to test herself. Had to succeed.

* * *

Ratchet came and found Cossette on his day off. That was how she knew it was important. _Nova?_ The nightmares had continued, but she had learned to push them away while she was fighting. Ratchet no longer asked why she seemed distracted. All was well...

No, he wouldn't be coming to tell her about the Nova. Too dangerous. He wouldn't put _her_ in danger by giving her any information he might come across. He was like that.

"What's wrong?"

"I gotta call from Fort Box," he explained. The black market hub was not far away from their current course.

She arched an eyebrow. He ran the operations of his people while working for her, but he didn't tell her about it. There was really no need to. That wasn't even why he was her tech, though the ease of acquiring parts and upgrades was certainly an added bonus. The only thing she could think of... her spirits sank. "They need you back?"

Ratchet blinked, then laughed. "No, no. Sorry, didn' mean to worry ya like _that_, boss, it ain't that bad. I just thought I oughta ask ya. See, someone's come lookin' for a nitrogen core."

"Frost?"

"Yeah. Just one of the minor ones, not the big main freezer. But... I dunno what she's plannin' to do with the thing, but my people did a background check. Only thing this girl's doin' right now, 24/7, is actin' as head tech for one o' the Ganymede fighters."

Understanding dawned. "And you're telling me so I know to be on my guard..."

"Uh." He frowned. "Well, yeah, that's part of it, but not quite. Was thinkin' more in terms of, ya want us to tell her we ain't got any cores?"

Cossette's eyes went very wide and she was glad Ratchet had looked away for a moment. She'd known they were friends and he wanted her to win, but this... this went beyond mere friendship. HAR equipment was a lucrative trade. "_Do_ you have any?"

"Course we do. Fort Box's the best-supplied bunch o' cheats this side of the asteroid belt."

"Then of course you can't call off the sale on my account."

He shrugged. "Ain't a big deal."

"But..."

He sat beside her on the nearest chair. He was good about that—keeping himself at her level, not looking down on her like so many preferred to do. "Boss, look. When I say I want ya to win, I mean it. Ya've been a good boss, and I ain't entirely jokin' when I say you winnin' would be good fer my business. Both of 'em actually."

His logic made some sense, and she could tell he was just as torn on the matter as she was. It would be so easy. Yet, if she were honest, she wanted to win through fair combat. Underhanded tactics wouldn't prove anything... and being able to stop someone from getting a part they needed, just because her tech happened to have a second job in illegitimate sales, was underhanded. _But it's effective. Risk-free_. Nobody would ever know. ..._Wrong. I would know_. "If you don't want to give it to her, then don't, but I don't want any part of it."

"Well... I mean, I'd like t' sell the thing, but if it's gonna hurt yer chances..."

"Ratchet, just give it to her."

"Yer positive?"

She was making a mistake, she knew it. _No. Dammit, no. I have to win this because I'm _good enough_ to win. I have to. Better to lose. Better to prove my weakness to the world, than to use an unfair advantage and prove my weakness only to myself._ But wasn't the one looking for the nitrogen core seeking that same advantage? Why should she feel guilty about denying an edge to an enemy?_ Because I hold myself to a higher standard than any of them_. Was that fair? _If life were fair, I would be walking. _

"...I'm positive."

He finally nodded. "Yer the boss." He turned to go, and she knew he was pleased at her decision, even if he would claim otherwise.

"Ratchet..."

"Eh?"

"Whose tech?"

"Jean-Paul's."

He left her alone to consider this, and consider it she did. She hadn't actually met the man, only seen him at the occasional major required WAR function, but she knew he was supposed to be intelligent. Which didn't include even thinking about fighting in a Frost. So he had to have some other use in mind for the core—but what? _What's he up to, anyway?_ No, no speculation. She would forget the incident until she faced him in the arena... but that was easier said than done.

It wasn't until long after Ratchet had left that the most pertinent question came to mind. There was only one course nearby, and with less than a year until the tournament, all of the competitors ought to be training in earnest. _If his tech is at Fort Box, does that mean... he's here?

* * *

_

He hit the ground running. On Earth the shock from the jump would've taken his legs out from under him, but Luna's lower gravity allowed somewhat more ridiculous physical feats to be somewhat less suicidal. He'd more or less adjusted to the gravity, though the barren wasteland was playing hell on his trying to familiarize himself with the environment. _Why would anyone want to live here? It doesn't even snow._

It occurred to Jean-Paul that Ganymede would be very similar, and he snorted. _Kreissack is a genius. He's managed to make ten of WAR's finest fight for the _privilege_ of being exiled to some lifeless rock_. When he put it that way, he almost wondered why he was bothering to train for this at all.

No. No doubts. WAR's corruption had to end, and the sooner the better. Besides, he'd already been ripped away from his home, there wasn't much else left to lose... and really, was it so bad? Luna and Ganymede were wastelands, but they certainly weren't Tallahassee. At least out here it was cold.

A rocky outcropping ahead. He took it quickly, though the gravel shifted under his weight and clearly wanted nothing more than to send him spilling to the ground. He sped up, mocking its attempts to throw him off. He had learned to run on the ice. Nothing could make him lose his footing, least of all some pathetic patch of rock.

He was approaching another cliff now. The first time running through he'd slowed—not even Luna's gravity could allow him to take a hundred-foot fall. Now he knew better. It was a jump he wouldn't have even minded on Earth. Here it was barely noticeable.

And now he was reaching the end. This was hardly an official training course, and there was nothing to mark the finish except a line of pebbles he'd arranged last week. The lack of wind and life on Luna ensured the small stones remained in place. Maybe there were some advantages to this rock after all... he crossed the line and immediately checked his watch.

Half an hour, almost exactly. Not bad. Not bad at all. He forced himself to sit carefully rather than collapsing in a heap like he would've preferred. _Getting better_. The nature of HARs made it necessary to train one's body as well as actually jacking in and hitting things, a fact it felt like he'd been forgetting lately with the frequent moves from course to course.

"Not too long now," he whispered raggedly to the empty landscape. Not true, of course, but it felt like it. They'd long since passed the halfway point.

It was almost 2097.


	6. First Encounter

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 5: First Encounter

* * *

Cossette knew he was there. His specter followed her everywhere, watched every move she made. Just because she _knew_ she was being ridiculously paranoid did not make matters any better. The competitors had been assiduously avoiding each other when they weren't forced to come in contact, and the fact that there was another running the same course here...

It grated on her. Illogical, but true.

She hadn't actually seen him, and she wondered if her being there was playing a similar hell on his nerves. Had he assumed, like she had, that the avoidance would continue to the extent that they would never have to meet while training?

"This is getting quite out of hand," she muttered to herself as she wheeled towards the pilot area. Maybe some running and beating on some target drones would help ease her mind.

Artemis Canyon was intended less for combat reflexes, more to ensure that pilots were not letting their maneuverability slide while they practiced smashing things. Cossette had to admit she enjoyed it more than many other courses. The simple feeling of moving, of running, of having working legs beneath her again, exhilarated her every time she jacked into a HAR, and when there was emphasis on the movement, that made it so much better.

Ratchet helped her in, letting her get adjusted to the HAR while he went for the control room. She was looking forward to the run for other reasons as well. Even the few target drones on this course did not fire back, so he didn't need to monitor most of the Electra's advanced systems, only the basic computer and hydraulics. With her tech less preoccupied their usual banter could flow freely over the comms here.

"Readin' me, she-demon?"

"Loud and clear."

"Head on out then, I'm with ya." She heard something different in his tone immediately. He was hiding something, something he found highly amusing. Usually when he was hiding something, it meant he'd arranged a surprise for her on the course. What sort of surprise could be arranged at Artemis Canyon she didn't know... but she prepared herself to see target drones flying in strange formations or going kamikaze.

"Time begins now."

The first leg of the course was the actual canyon—a twisted, winding maze of rock that in some places was barely wide enough to admit a HAR at all. She only scraped herself a few times, having learned the lay of the land, but boulders and small artificial outcroppings moved about by the course manager still kept things relatively unpredictable. Soon enough she was out of the canyon and on a flat plain.

This was the best part. _Sprint_.

Electra's long strides ate up the ground, and she let herself laugh. This was where she felt the most alive, where there was nothing to worry about but speed and motion and letting the wind rush by her. _If I could stay like this forever, I wouldn't need Ganymede_. But it was only a dream and soon enough she was past the open stretch. "How'd I do?"

"Not bad at all. Beat yer last sprint by a good five seconds. Now pay 'tention, cuz if ya get yerself banged up here, I'm gonna laugh at ya fer a week."

"Yeah yeah, I know." The drones would be on this last stretch, and while it wasn't a full-fledged canyon, the rock formations were certainly large enough to make HAR maneuverability limited. She slowed, but not all the way to walking, then a playful mood overtook her and she leapt up on an outcropping and began bounding from rock to rock.

"I'm gonna hafta dock ya fer that, boss. Ain't in the rules."

"I wasn't aware there were any rules but what the person in the control room _says_ are the rules."

"_I'm_ the person in the control room."

"And you wouldn't make a rule that says I can't think outside the box, would you?"

"Well, when ya put it that way, I guess not."

Taking the higher ground had taken her through that stretch in half the time it usually took, and without encountering any of the drones—which would only slow her down at this point, but she probably ought to scrap a few for the sake of keeping her skills sharp. So she hit the ground again, slowing to what for the Electra was a leisurely jog. Drones popped their heads out from behind rocks and swooped through empty spaces, only to be greeted with bolts of lightning.

"Gettin' better, ya used t' practically crawl here if ya wanted to hit anythin'," Ratchet commented.

She had to admit she was pleased with her progress, but probably better not to admit it out loud. Ratchet preferred to be the only one to inflate her ego, and if it sounded like she was starting to believe him, well... he'd just have to make fun of her more. She snickered and rounded the corner.

And about twenty yards in front of her stood a HAR she had never seen in her life.

* * *

Jean-Paul's sensors screamed for attention and he looked up, curious. The drones were small enough that they only set off secondary alarms. The only thing that typically set off the main warning was another HAR...

He turned to see an Electra clearing the rocks behind him. "Misty, what the hell?"

Static.

_All right, so the course has gone haywire_. He knew there _was_ holo equipment here, but it was rarely active. A malfunction could easily have placed a false HAR in his rear. Perhaps Misty had even activated it, just to keep him sharp. _Fair enough. Let's go_.

The Electra was standing there watching him and he took a step back, falling into a defensive position. It came racing at him almost as soon as he dropped back, raising one arm and flinging a sphere of lightning.

He jumped aside and let it charge straight past him on the heels of its projectile, but it was very good. He didn't have time to do much but get his bearings before it swung around to face him, let alone get in an attack. Then it, too, took up a more defensive stance.

The fact that they stood there sizing each other up for a full minute was his first hint that something was wrong. The AI was _never_ programmed for that. He doubted it was any different on this course than any others...

At that realization, another thing dawned on him, something he wouldn't generally pay any attention to in a HAR battle. The machine's paint was nothing that would _ever_ appear on a holographic trainer—a base of light blue, accented with gray and aquamarine, and bearing silvery lightning bolts over the limbs.

_Electra_... and Misty had reported when they'd arrived that they were not alone... comprehension dawned.

Jean-Paul straightened, and the Shadow actually managed to look as resigned as he felt. As tiring as the pitiful AI on most simulators was, this was neither the time or place to get into an actual, honest-to-god HAR battle.

He switched to external comms. "Cossette, is it?"

The Electra was silent and motionless for a rather long time, then it also straightened and turned away from him, facing the control tower visible in the distance. One pointed arm raised and shot dozens of sparks in that general direction, and a female voice echoed out over the canyon. "Ratchet, I'm going to KILL YOU!"

While empathy was not his strong point, and he did not actually know who this Ratchet was, Jean-Paul had to admit he echoed the sentiment completely.

* * *

Cossette managed to get herself off the table this time, having no desire to wait for Ratchet to come help her. No, she was still going to kill him. Painfully. It would involve many sharp pointy objects. Yes, it would indeed...

One of the other doors opened and Jean-Paul slipped out, holding his helmet and looking indifferent. He barely seemed to register her presence at first, but then he did give a more or less polite nod. "Hello."

"_Hello?" _The word seemed somehow... insufficient. It was only when his expression changed to one of exasperation that she realized she'd repeated the word aloud, and how ridiculous it must have sounded.

"I will try again," he offered in a mildly condescending tone. "Konnichiwa, Akira san."

Cossette muttered one of the very few Japanese words she knew. It wasn't exactly something that ought to be used in polite company, but he seemed amused.

Rachet's voice interrupted the uncomfortable situation. "She-demon, why didn't ya wait fer me when ya jacked out? I woulda helped ya, even if ya did threaten t' kill me..."

"Because the death threat's still in effect, asshole," she grumbled. Trailing behind Ratchet was a slender Oriental-looking woman. She was fuming. _Must be Jean-Paul's tech, and if I didn't know better, I'd say she was an unwilling accomplice_. "What the hell did you _do_ that for?"

"Well, I kinda thought he'd be outta the course 'fore ya reached 'im, but then ya took that shortcut over the course, so ya found 'im after all. Just thought it might be kinda funny to let ya figure it out fer yerself." He turned to Jean-Paul and stabbed a finger in the woman's direction. "This one didn' think it was funny, so I cut yer comms, an' she got even more pissy, but see? Ya figured it out."

"It _wasn't_ funny," she growled.

Jean-Paul's gaze shifted between the two techs for a few moments, and he apparently shared Cossette's personal opinion on the matter: they were close to turning and punching each other, probably a lot closer than their pilots had come. "Let it go Misty," he said finally, "no harm done... this time." This last accompanied a pointed look at Ratchet. Then he turned and began heading down the hallway.

"But sir—"

"Let it go! They're not worth it."

She shrugged and followed him, leaving Cossette to glare with hatred burning in her blue eyes. "Not worth it?" she hissed as they went out of sight. Admittedly, she hadn't wanted a fight, but that arrogant bastard..."I'll show him _not worth it_."

"He's already got the core, y'know."

"That's fine. It won't save him in the arena. I'll give him a beating he'll never forget."

Ratchet grinned. "Good she-demon. Ya get a cookie."

"If it's chocolate chip, I may just decide to put off killing you for awhile."

"Deal!"


	7. Premonition

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 6: Premonition

* * *

Jean-Paul's eyes were closed. That changed little... he knew what was surrounding him, could feel the warmth, could smell the smoke, could hear the flickering of the flames. 

He had improved. A circle of some dozen candles now surrounded him, all of which he'd lit himself without once dropping the lighter. He was starting to think that even if he opened his eyes, he could remain within this circle of fire indefinitely. It felt like a serpent was writhing inside him, trying to bite its way out, every time he laid eyes on one of the flames, but he could do it. No longer did he face the immobilizing panic.

There was, however, a problem. The candles had ceased to bother him as much because he knew he controlled them. He owned these flames, and they were his to douse if need be. He still could not make the aura of the flames flow harmlessly through him, as he ought to... he still fought against the fire and tried to conquer it. Here, he _could_ conquer it.

It wasn't going to be so easy in the arena.

"Why isn't this working?" he asked of the empty room. Misty didn't know he had continued this, what she clearly thought to be a mad, masochistic ritual. That was probably just as well. She was off working on his HAR... installing the nitrogen core. Of course, that meant he had to stay out of it for at least a week, but it seemed a small price to pay.

He moved around the circle, extinguishing each candle with deliberate movements that brought him frightfully close to the flames. He was becoming impatient, restless, frustrated. "There's an answer. I should be able to figure it out." Voicing that truth made him feel better. Perhaps...

He slipped from the room and scrounged up an ice cube, holding it tightly in his hand. The cold did not matter. It barely registered to him... spreading throughout his body and soul, the biting chill was nullified. This was understanding.

Slowly but surely, the ice melted away. It was gone, but... he had allowed it to touch him... yes. He had not come to an understanding of the ice by merely _watching_ it. His 'predisposition', as Misty called it, was from _being_ in the cold, not observing it. Which meant...

One candle.

He lit it slowly, carefully, and flicked the lighter off. The flame mocked him and his projected confidence. It mocked all that he was. He lifted his hand and saw with irritation that it was shaking. But no. He forced himself to move. Fire, like ice, was an element. It was not enough to stand in its presence. One could only understand it by allowing it to touch...

"ARGH!"

Then he was on the other side of the room with his hand in his mouth. _That was stupid. You knew that was going to be stupid before you did it, and you know what? It was stupider than you thought!_

Jean-Paul stood, staggered into the bathroom. Medication. Disinfectant. Bandages. Yes. Much better. He took a moment to study himself in the mirror... the experience had left him paler than usual, but that would clear up. He ran a hand through his hair—the exact shade and wildness of fire—and shook his head. Sometimes, he could not help feeling a great many of his traits were a part of some cosmic joke.

Dark disgust stole over his features as he contemplated what he'd just done. _You are an idiot. Maybe you're the smartest man in the world, but come on, look at who that's judged against. You can be the smartest man ever born and still be an idiot... and you know what? You are_.

"That's a little harsh," he mumbled, making a great effort to control his temper. One of the few things that annoyed him more than messing up in the first place was realizing he'd let himself lapse into self-hatred _after_ messing up. It was so easy to let anger become hatred. Both were emotions he preferred to suppress.

It was time to get out of here for a bit, it really was... gods, he was exhausted. Perhaps he'd been working too hard. Yes. That would be it. He'd stop worrying about fire until the Shadow's new weapon was installed, and perhaps after a break he would not be so desperate.

So completely, utterly, _painfully_ desperate.

He left his quarters. Most of the training courses were intended for the armada, and had common areas for the pilots to spend their off-time in, and at least that room had windows. All they gave was a view of the barren—and dark, he mused, glancing at his watch—surface of Luna... but it was better than nothing. Perhaps he would see stars. Perhaps he would make out constellations visible from Earth. Perhaps, he would see Earth itself... maybe even catch a glimpse of home.

What he actually saw when he entered the room was Cossette seated in front of the holoscreen. Though he'd been aware she was still here, the two hadn't seen each other since their 'pleasant' meeting on the course a week and a half ago.

She looked up at him. "Happy New Year."

"Eh?" He looked at his watch again. Dammit, she was right. He hadn't even realized the date... perhaps there were merits to the idea he was pushing himself too hard.

She sneered at his confusion, and adopted a long-suffering tone. "I will try again. Felix sit annus novus."

Jean-Paul felt the entire world slowly but surely turning upside-down around him. _Yes, definitely overwork._ He registered and understood the underlying nastiness in her words, but found he did not care. Her hostility flowed through him and was gone, much like the fire refused to do. "I don't speak Latin. Neither does anyone else. Except the Pope. So you must be the Pope."

It occurred to him, when he finished speaking, thathe may have slightly overdosed on the pain meds, but the expression on her face made it all worth it. "WHAT?"

"That was logic. The Pope speaks Latin. You spoke Latin. Therefore, you must be the Pope." He frowned. "Perhaps not good logic. But logic."

He hadn't thought it possible for Cossette's expression to become funnier. He'd been wrong. "Excuse me. Who are you, and what have you done with the arrogant prick who's been hanging around here?"

..._So much for that_. "You know, I was in a good mood, and you're ruining it."

"Your mood is not really something that concerns me."

"Well it ought to, unless you're planning to leave, because I'm planning to stay."

"Goodbye, then." She flipped off the holoscreen and wheeled out.

Well. _That_ worked. Oh well, at least he had the place to himself now. Tomorrow while he was busy being excruciatingly embarrassed by hisprevious comments, he could at least salve his ego by remembering he'd made her storm out of his presence in annoyance.

He sprawled across the nearest couch and positioned himself so he could look out the window. It was a clear night—it was always clear on Luna. Yes, he could see the stars from here, many of them. They glittered cold and distant... no... they looked so cold, yet they were not cold. Quite the opposite. They were fire.

His eyes widened in understanding. But before he could fully grasp the revelation which had just presented itself to him, he drifted away into sleep.

* * *

The dream had changed again, Cossette mused as she lay in bed. There was still the rain of fire, still the exploding sun. Still the laughing demon bearing Ratchet's corpse in one massive hand. But this time someone stood behind the monster. For a moment she thought it was an ally of the creature, but no. The lanky form's vivid green eyes burned with fury as it watched the demon laugh. 

She wondered... surely, the dreams had to mean something. They came every night now, and she was close to ignoring them, but that was terribly dangerous. But what else could she do?

She could find the green-eyed man, the one who watched from afar. But, perhaps not. What good would it do? They could watch the world end together, rather than separately. No thanks. Much better to prevent the demon from being spawned.

Being a cripple in the ultra-competitive world of WAR was not easy... politics dictated that one must always attack the weaker, and so many people still insisted on seeing her as weak. She had learned. She had adapted, and she had many contacts. Some for convenience, some for necessity. It was time to start poking around... and find out what this Nova Project really was.

* * *

He dreamed. 

He was home again. That could not be possible, could it? But no... he could never forget this place. Even without his perfect mind, he carried it within his very soul. The ice whispered around him, the chill wind's gentle caress welcoming him back to where he belonged...

Something was not right. He smelled smoke. _Fire_. No. There could be no fire here! Not on this sacred ground! Jean-Paul whirled, looking for the source of the smoke, but he could not see it.

The wind became darker, more sinister, and he looked to the sky. _There_. The flames poured from the sky, and as he saw them they began to strike the earth. But where was it coming from? How could...

Amidst the rain he suddenly realized the greatest fire of all was gone from the heavens. From where the sun ought to have been came a dark figure, wreathed in flame, gazing down at him with hideous, glowing eyes. Its laughter filled Jean-Paul's ears and the fire fell to its rhythm.

"Kreissack." It was instinctive. He knew. He could make out nothing of the fire creature but its eyes, but he knew. Kreissack had caused this. The corruption of WAR had caused this. The flames were WAR's ultimate end, the goal, the final subjugation of humanity...

Somewhere behind the monster, he saw another form. A woman in a wheelchair. She watched it with the same hatred he felt, perhaps even greater, yet it was as if she were watching from a very long way away.

He awoke to the deserted common room, light just beginning to creep in the windows. A word burned inside him, a word that seemed to embody all of his fear and anger and hatred. All that he worked against. All that was evil.

_Nova_.

* * *

The call went out to all of the competitors. It was 2097. They were to return to WAR's main headquarters at Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. There would be a celebration, in anticipation of the tournament later this year. Be there by January 12th. There would be only a small media presence, but the whole WAR power structure would be present. It was to be a celebration of the future. 

For the two at Artemis Canyon, the orders were received with almost identical disdain. Kreissack was really milking this thing for all it was worth—the leader of WAR just enjoyed throwing lavish parties, to demonstrate his company's wealth. Shouldn't they be working and training, rather than taking time off for this ridiculous ego boost? No matter. Kreissack said pack up and go, so they packed up and went.

They had not spoken since the night that they both had the dream.


	8. So Resolved

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 7: So Resolved

* * *

Milano Steele moved through the room like a prowling canine, knowing the mere sight of his lithe form patrolling the premises would reassure some of the jumpier board members. Kreissack liked getting everyone together for parties, to show off the power and splendor of WAR. The board did _not_ like it so much. In fact, a great many of them felt it was an unnecessary risk.

Milano personally agreed with this. Not because he feared anything happening to those illustrious personages within the gathering. But because it was such a tempting target... heightened security, more arrests, more of WAR's power applied to the masses with rather wild abandon. There was no need for it. But, duty called...

Besides, working with Kreissack now was the best way toward reforming the company later.

Technically he was off-duty right now. It was his personal opinion, however, that a good security chief could _never_ really be off-duty. Besides, he covered a great deal more ground this way. Milano was charismatic and enjoyed the companionship of others, even these superficial power brokers. Once he won, he would need them on his side—either through friendship or blackmail—if he was to take this company back. Much easier to make, and strengthen, the required contacts while walking through, mingling with the crowd, than letting himself get bogged down in a single conversation.

A flash of flame by the wall caused a smile to cross his features. _So that's where you've been hiding_. He moved quickly towards it.

"Jean-Paul! I was wondering where you were."

The younger man frowned. Milano knew what he was thinking—he was one of the tallest people in the room and all things considered, not easy to miss. But Jean-Paul had a way of shrinking into the shadows and avoiding attention, and Milano had a habit of not noticing those he knew not to be security risks while on duty. Those two factors had worked against him this time.

"I'm avoiding someone," he answered at length.

Milano arched an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Yes."

And really, he had known Jean-Paul long enough to know he wouldn't get elaboration unless he asked for elaboration. "Who?"

"Someone."

"Why?"

"Because."

Milano rolled his eyes. "Has anyone ever told you," he asked pleasantly, "that trying to have a conversation with you is like talking to a brick wall?"

"If the brick wall is answering you, I suggest you get help," was the deadpan response.

"You're in rare form today."

"Perhaps." Something was struggling behind Jean-Paul's calm expression. Then, "We need to talk. Now."

"Oh?" A nod. That was unusual. The two were almost friends—never _quite_ friendly, but with a working relationship that was better than cordial. But it was Milano who generally initiated the conversations, and there was a hint of urgency in Jean-Paul's voice.

Which was worrying in itself. "Perhaps it _is_ a bit stuffy in here. Come on, let's step out for a few minutes." They quickly moved to one of the balconies of the large assembly hall.

For a long time Jean-Paul only stared up at the stars. "Homesick?" Milano inquired, with some hesitation. He'd never actually been to Canada and had no idea if the mountains of Colorado would be anything like the mountains of Canada—or, indeed, if Jean-Paul was even from that part of the country. He realized this with a pang. _I try to be his friend, yet I know so little_. "You ought to go home for a few days and take a break, perhaps." He grinned, trying to break the sudden tension in the air. "I know I've had to take a few trips back to New York to recharge."

The look on Jean-Paul's face could not be described, but Milano guessed that surprise was the greatest part of it. "I cannot go back."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't!" Hatred sparked in his eyes for a moment before fading back into his usual impassive mask. "This is not why we needed to talk."

"Then why?"

"Tell me about Nova."

* * *

Jean-Paul contemplated matters while waiting for Milano's shock to fade. The other man had let something slip, something of a significance he no doubt didn't realize. He should know _why_ Jean-Paul could not go home. He was the security chief, that was his job._ If we're going to be perfectly honest, I probably ought to be considered a very high risk for the same reason._ He'd always assumed he _was_, in fact, and that was why the security chief showed such interest in him. It was also why he'd humored the man—no sense giving himself away before he had to.

But the suggestion had been sincere. _You ought to go home_.

_Doesn't he know? Or has he fallen for the lie? ...And if he has, maybe we'd better find another security chief._

"Nova," Milano finally managed, and Jean-Paul abandoned that line of thought. "You're a market analyst, Jean-Paul, isn't Nova a bit outside of your department?"

"Please. You know better than that. _Nothing_ in WAR is outside my department." _Isn't_ _that the truth_. Just because market analysis was the first job Kreissack could shove him into didn't mean his actual position was anything but 'unassigned advisor.' Milano obviously hadn't expected that excuse to work.

Something about the Nova had him rattled. Probably a bad sign.

"Point taken." Milano turned away from him, and also stared up at the stars. "There's not much I can tell you, except that I'm a little bitter about it."

"Eh?"

"I'm not handling it. Kreissack's using WAR techs, but Iron Fist facilities and security. You know they recently renegotiated their contract."

"All too well." It had been a minor scandal when Iron Fist left the employ of WAR to work for Kreissack personally. The media hadn't shut up about it for weeks.

"Well, that's about all I can tell you then. From the facility they're using, I can assume it's a HAR or some other type of large equipment, but that's it."

Jean-Paul frowned. Assuming Milano was telling the truth—and while cunning, the man wasn't much of an outright liar—he didn't like the implications of that at all.

"All right." He turned to go, then thought better of it. "Thanks." _Now_ he could go, and he did, quickly. Preferably before Milano could ask why he was so interested in the Nova, a conversation which could not possibly go well for him.

He looked back into the main hall, and shook his head. He'd put in his appearance and he was ready to get the hell out. Preferably before _she_ caught sight of him... once again, his thoughts drifted to Cossette. No, not Cossette, but the shadowy woman in his dream. Which was Cossette. That much was obvious and it bothered him greatly.

Sensei had told him he ought to pay attention to his dreams. That was all fine when he was young and foolish and actually didn't mind being called _little fox_. Since coming to WAR, he much preferred not to dream at all. ...Especially when those dreams involved people he'd met all of twice, for about five minutes each time.

He'd come to a few conclusions, though. The first was that it could be worse. Much worse. There were a great many _other_ people who could be appearing in his dreams, and thankfully weren't.

That lead to the second realization, which was that Cossette was possibly the only person in this ridiculous tournament he could honestly respect. The twins were too rash, and too idealistic. Shirro and Ibrahim were pawns, Raven was a sadist, and Steffan was an idiot. Milano... was Milano, and that was probably enough said.

Angel creeped him out, which made her the worst of them all.

Cossette was not like them. She at least had both a functioning mind in her head and a sense of independence, two things rather uncommon at WAR—the first was unquestionable when one considered her accomplishments, the second clear by the fact she had chosen not to just quit and die despite the many fools who would insist on seeing her as inferior. She was emotional and reactive, yes, but... so was he, under certain circumstances.

The third thing he'd realized was that he could not do this alone. He needed allies. He might well lose the tournament, and even if he succeeded, every friend made now lessened the time it would take to overthrow the company later. He must not forget that destroying the monster was his ultimate goal here. That was most important. His own personal wishes could wait until it was done...

Perhaps what the dream was telling him was that Cossette, too, held no great love for WAR or Kreissack. And if that were the case, she would be an ideal ally in this battle.

But that left him with a very distasteful prospect. He'd have to go talk to her. And what the hell was he supposed to say?

"_Oh, hi, listen, I know you think I'm an asshole, and I probably was, but I've been dreaming about you and I want you to help me destroy WAR."_

Yeah. Right.

This would take some serious thought.

* * *

Angel couldn't explain what she was sensing. There was something _about_ some of these humans... something almost familiar, yet it was not. They were unlike her people, who could share thoughts at will. Yet clearly they were sharing something. Something perhaps they did not even realize.

She moved closer to the one called Cossette, who sat alone in her anger, and as she approached she felt it growing stronger. _Interesting_. Perhaps the human's injury had caused her mind to over perform, granting her the faintest trace of the Ability. The Elders said that her people had once been like the humans, before their minds began to develop in ways which rapidly outpaced their bodies... nobody was entirely certain why this had occurred in her people, but it was not inconceivable that the process could begin in a human with less of a body to be concerned about.

It did not explain the other, the one holding the other end of the thread. She would have to see about him later. Cossette seemed to be the source, which made her a more immediate concern.

_Will she sense me?_ It was impossible to tell for certain. Her people knew two stages of the Ability: first came the unconscious stages of sharing thoughts, and then the crossing of the threshold, when the telepathic contact became voluntary and controlled. Cossette was obviously in the first stage—could any human truly achieve the mastery of the second?—but the question was how far into the first stage she had gone.

Were her abilities purely reflexive, the threads of thought snaking out and touching other humans without her knowledge? Or were the impulses returning to her mind in a form she could interpret, though she could not yet control their paths?

Cossette showed no sign of being aware of Angel's presence as the silver-haired woman moved closer. Her steps were slow, but purposeful. Any other human who might have turned and seen her would immediately recall a pressing need to look elsewhere, forgetting she had ever been there. _They are so easily manipulated without the Ability to protect them! And yet they are so arrogant..._

Still no movement from the human. Yes, her Ability was limited. Either she could not sense, or Angel's low-level psychic shield was enough to protect her. No matter what, she continued to approach. She had to know. Had to touch the thread, to see what could have caused such a clear bond. The thread was new—she had not seen it at the last gathering—and already quite tangible.

Worrying. Angel was still a stranger among strange creatures, and whatever she might learn from them in this way could only help her cause.

Now she was directly behind Cossette, and _still_ the human remained motionless. Often even normal humans could sense each others' presence at such distances, but Angel willed Cossette not to notice as she closed her eyes and concentrated. She locked onto the Ability, faint but there. _Show me the thread, show me now, for the sake of Tanmir and the rebellion. Show me the threat. I am of the Tanmari, the true masters of the Ability. Betray your human vessel and show me_.

Words made no impact on the Ability, for it itself was not a sentient creature. But her feelings as she implored it to open itself to her, her determination to see what must be seen, allowed the thread to shimmer physically before her._ Yes. There_. She reached out one pale hand and let her fingers brush against it.

Cossette gasped and her blue eyes darted around the room, though the gaze never shifted to behind her where Angel stood. She rapidly began wheeling out and Angel's connection, her ability to touch the thread, was broken. _Curses. She senses more than I thought._

No matter. She had seen. She had seen the sun explode in the sky.

_These humans... what madness do they now pursue?_

She backed away from where she stood, leaning up against a wall before closing her eyes again. The din of the human gathering was easily tuned out as she concentrated.

_I have made a discovery_.

It was the High Elder himself who responded, and the strength of his voice, of his Ability, at such distances never ceased to mystify her. _You are startled, young one, and your mind races with fear. Tell us of your discovery._

_I have seen a cataclysm, the death of the star C'keir, the Life-Giver._

_How have you seen this?_

_Through the vision of a human, one with a trace of the Ability within her._

_Continue to investigate. If you need assistance, we will lend what we can, but know that our resources are limited on the human worlds._

_I am aware. Shall I cause the human to forget?_

_You must do what you feel is best for your mission. We cannot order you in this matter. Be advised, however, that if the vision is of importance, it may be wise for the human to be allowed to remember and develop what has been seen, that you may see the same._

Angel's eyes opened. Of course the High Elder was right, she must allow the human's vision to continue.

She would investigate. Then she would win this foolish tournament, and the plotting of the humans would cease to be an issue.


	9. Soulshattered

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 8: Soulshattered

* * *

Jean-Paul moved through the corridors like a wraith. Dark thoughts clouded his head as he considered the situation. This had been the final gathering until June, when the competitors would be expected to return to the main HQ one last time. There they would stay until the tournament began.

The reasoning for such a long pre-tournament stretch was obvious. They were all avoiding each other so desperately that Kreissack needed to shove them all together, lest even one competitor forget that they were meant to hate the others.

That was probably be the next time he'd see Cossette, who had left the complex late the night before, according to Misty. This angered him. He'd not been entirely certain what to tell her, but certainly it was better to test the waters now than have to wait for six more months? Even if he wanted to track her down, he probably couldn't now...

And he didn't want to. Stalking her would _probably_ not help his case.

His thoughts turned to his next move. Training courses were getting old, though he'd not yet had a chance to test out the nitrogen core. Misty had been making minor tweaks to it since arriving to the better facilities at Cheyenne Mountain, and while she'd promised it was ready to go at any time, he thought it probably best to leave her to her work. They would have to leave soon, however. He did not like this place, the center of WAR's power and corruption...

_You ought to go home._

He couldn't go home.

_True. But you can still take Milano's advice._

He hesitated. He _could_, at that. It would work well. He could get a break, give himself some time to recharge... the burn on his hand had not yet healed, a painful reminder of what happened when he let himself become stressed. Misty could remain here doing whatever she felt had to be done to his machine, rather than having to be dragged off to another world, interrupting her work and making her deal with inferior facilities. Milano would have to clear him, and would be pleased that his advice had been heeded.

Yes. That was a good idea. The ponytailed twit had his uses.

Jean-Paul activated his comm. unit. "Misty?"

"Problem, sir?"

_Yes. Stop calling me that_. "Not really, but I think I'm going to take a week or so for a bit of a break."

"About time."

Even she'd noticed? Wonderful. He didn't remember _her_ suggesting he take a break, and if he didn't remember it, it hadn't happened. "Don't lecture me, you haven't taken a day off in eight months."

She had no response to that.

"Keep in touch if something comes up. It's not _that_ much of a break."

"Understood. Where are you going?"

He hesitated for a moment, trying to choose a specific location, then decided she didn't need to know that badly anyway. "Canada."

* * *

"No, we don't have a clue what he's working on, except that it's something big. None of the security team is allowed inside the complex."

"How can he do that? Bar you from your own building?"

Tanith Karimi paused in her walk beside Cossette's chair. "You know the answer to that, don't you?"

"The price is right?"

"Bingo." The woman shook her head, causing her multitude of dark braids to bounce around her face. "I haven't actually been assigned to that detail, but there's plenty of talk in the ranks. They're all strictly forbidden to talk about anything they've seen with people outside the Fist." A faint smile crossed her face. "Of course, only those on assignment are given those orders, so they come and talk to people in the Fist who aren't assigned, and apparently we can tell whoever we like."

"Seems like a rather large thing to overlook, considering the lengths he's gone to to keep this thing secret."

"Meh." Tanith shrugged. "I guess the almighty toppers figure the grunts can't do it much damage when they aren't allowed into the building. Equipment that comes through is apparently bundled up so much it's impossible to tell the actual shape or size. Kinda makes sense, to me anyway. The more strictly they try to enforce it, the more we're gonna let slip. May as well give a legit outlet to tell the world how much we don't know."

"True."

This was typical of Cossette's efforts. Everyone had rumors, and some new information of just how painfully secretive the project was. She'd learned plenty about Kreissack's security procedures... but precious little about the project itself.

"They're not happy, though."

"Huh?"

"The grunts on Nova detail. Not happy at all. Kreissack's got an enforcer or two going to the complex along with the techs, to make sure they aren't sneaking peeks at anything they oughtn't. Apparently they've come pretty close to some fights."

"From what I know about Kreissack's usual enforcers, that doesn't surprise me in the least."

"I'd say our people are a pretty big chunk of the problem too, but Kreissack isn't helping himself."

Cossette nodded. That was a valuable bit of information, but her Iron Fist contacts didn't really penetrate deeply enough to make any use of it at this time. "I appreciate the help, Tanith."

"No problem. If I hear anything else, I'll be in touch, but I'll admit I'm trying to avoid that assignment. All the more reason to now so I don't get slapped with the gag order, but it'll kinda limit what I can tell you."

"Anything you can get is better than nothing, and I can hardly complain," Cossette grinned. "Just take care of yourself, I don't want to have to find a new contact."

"No problem, no problem. I don't want you to have to find a new contact either."

"I'm glad we can agree on that. Otherwise I'd be worried."

Tanith just laughed.

* * *

He'd gotten clearance easily, and Milano had even had the nerve to wish him a pleasant vacation. Something grated terribly on the edge of Jean-Paul's mind. _If he actually thinks I'm from WAR-controlled territory, he almost certainly doesn't have reason to consider me a security threat. And if he doesn't know that, why does he take such an interest in me?_ Kreissack may have put him up to it. The young genius was far too valuable to WAR to let him take care of himself, after all.

But Jean-Paul doubted it. Milano was not the one Kreissack would use for such a duty. And that left him back at square one. _He might actually like me_. That was a mildly distressing thought, but would at least explain why the man wouldn't leave him alone.

Something brushed up against him as he moved through the deserted corridor and he tensed, instinctively. Physical contact was not something he enjoyed. And then he realized there was nothing anywhere near him, there had _been_ no physical contact... he felt it again. It was extremely strange, as he could not tell where it had touched him. A third time and his eyes widened. The sensation was in his head.

He whirled and saw her standing behind him, silver-white hair almost luminous under the fluorescent lights. If he didn't know better, he would have said she was faintly transparent... her eyes were wide, unfocused. "Angel?"

If he'd thought she was unwell he was very wrong. The jade eyes blazed with power and her voice was soft. "Turn. Continue. I am not here."

Yes. Indeed. What had he been thinking? Angel's presence was not relevant, did not matter to him in any way. He turned and kept walking, and made it a good half-dozen paces before the sensation of touch came again.

With it came annoyance. The feeling was very irritating. He turned again and she frowned at him. "Did you not understand? You are not concerned with me."

He was being very foolish right now. "I'm sorry. I understand." He made to turn again, but something else snarled in his mind. _She's the one touching you. She's playing with your mind_. Was she? Could it be so? She seemed so very irrelevant... no.. she was not there... yet he looked and she _was_ there. He did not take his eyes from her, and she did not go away.

_Don't look away. She's there. She's doing something, trying to control your thoughts somehow. Your mind is your greatest weapon. It must not be used against you._

Anger began to build.

* * *

Angel didn't understand. He did not have the Ability, not even a trace! Yet somehow he had resisted her probing, as if there were a wall around his mind which she could not penetrate. And it got worse, he had sensed her.

Even worse, he had _seen_ her. He ought not to have even registered her presence, yet he had both focused his gaze on her physical form and spoken her name. And now he was failing to even respond to her orders to turn. She had never encountered a human like this before. Never!

_He is a genius among the humans_. She'd put little stock in that reputation, what was so great about being the master of all insects? Now she was regretting it. It must be something unique about his mind, something that also gave him great intelligence.

No matter the cause, she knew she had to make him forget, or her entire mission would be compromised by her own foolishness. She should have left the first time he had sensed her.

"Look away. Remember nothing." At the same time she sent a searing telepathic burst into his mind, one which would remove any memory of this encounter with pinpoint precision.

She felt an icy, fierce energy lashing out and it snapped the connection between them. _Lucky_. He had been flailing wildly, as though he knew something was invading his mind but had no idea what it was, or where. For a Tanmari such a display would have been laughable. But in a human it was very worrying indeed.

"You do not need to fight me."

His voice was a low snarl. "Get out of my head!"

Okay, so the reassuring approach wasn't going to work. Perhaps explanation. "Stop fighting me. I will remove your memory of this encounter, and then I will leave as you ask."

"Like _hell_ you will!"

Stubborn, this one. "Do as I tell you, or I will vaporize your mind, human!"

That, she realized as soon as the words left her lips, had been the wrong thing to say. A scream of fury echoed from him which nobody else in the complex would hear... between her Ability, the telepathic link she'd forged between them, and his boiling rage, the situation had destabilized. They no longer stood fully on the physical plane.

This was bad. Very, very bad.

* * *

Cossette's head snapped up and she stopped in the middle of the hallway, causing Ratchet to run into her. "She-demon, ya okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

She began moving again, but she had heard something. Something like a scream. Yet she hadn't heard it with her ears... as if it had come from inside her head.

That made no sense. Perhaps it was the dream. Ever since the flashback at the last WAR gathering, she'd become quite paranoid about the dream. Yes. Just another flashback. Once she solved Nova's riddle it would all go away.

* * *

Angel was not a warrior, not in the way of the Tanmari, though she had trained in the human schools of combat in preparation for this mission. She could fight on the mental plane, of course. But her power would be erratic. She had trained the Ability to be a tool, not a weapon.

Her adversary was similar, she determined, as he looked around in sudden, silent amazement. Apparently he was able to sense that all was not right, even though the appearance of the corridor had not changed... no. It _was_ changing, becoming colder. Something was falling from the ceiling, tiny flecks of white which accumulated on the ground. Angel had never seen this phenomenon before.

Jean-Paul must be causing it. _Of course_. Here, in a realm of dreams and shadows rather than solid and unchanging reality, the barriers around his mind would have weakened, and he had no control over it. Yet, he had already shown the ability to resist her, and what power he did have would be amplified here just as hers was. It would be far too dangerous to try to remove the memory here. She would have to break the link, return them to the physical world, before she could do that.

She did risk reaching out to his mind to pull something from it, a word for the whiteness that continued to fall. _Snow_.

He looked at her. "What have you done?"

"That is not for you to know, human."

He was not fully present, she could sense as much. Some exterior layer—the false mask which so many humans wore, a distasteful affectation to hide their true nature—had slipped away from him in this place. That might give her an advantage, as he would be without a part of himself. Then again, she would rather face the calm and arrogant human genius than this roiling mass of anger.

At least she could sense what she'd done wrong. This human considered his mental ability the greatest facet of his identity, and she had tried to interfere with it. Humans were so very protective of their identities.

"This can't be possible," he stated softly, seeming barely to contain himself as he stood looking at the snow.

"All is possible within the mental plane." _We'll see how this approach works._ "You are dreaming. It is time to leave it." Technically true, though humans tended to consider dreams to be images they had only as they slept.

His eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me. This isn't a dream."

She might've known. _All right. We will do this the hard way_. "But it is, and I will ensure you do not remember it upon leaving." Another blast. This time his unfocused defiance was not enough to block it and he cried out in pain. Enough pain, and humans tended to fall into sleep. That would break the link she had so foolishly forged. She could remove the memory and be gone—

He ran at her. _What? Leave it to a human to fight physically on the mental plane! _She prepared for the attack but seemingly far away he dropped to the ground, sliding much further and faster than he should have been able to. Trying to move she found the snow had made the floor slick...

Impact. He slammed into her full force, cutting her legs from beneath her, and she collapsed in a heap on the cold ground. He was up quickly, she took longer to regain her footing on the slippery surface. This snow had to be done away with, if the fight was going to be like _this_.

She concentrated for only a moment, knowing what she had to do. The white flakes ceased to fall from the sky and the corridor glowed around them. _Yes. Strike him as well_. Crystals erupted from all sides, the crystals of light and power which illuminated the cavern-cities of the Tanmari. One caught him and left a bloody gash in his shoulder.

Angel learned an important lesson about humans in that moment. Pain made them angry. And anger made them powerful.

Again he ran at her, stumbling once or twice over the crystals, but refusing to be deterred. And her change in the environment had impaired her own movement. He had her, curses upon him, he had her—

He was able to land only one punch, the pain in his shoulder having robbed the other arm of its strength. That punch was enough. She choked as his fist impacted on her chest, and her assumed human biology sent her into a terrible coughing fit. She touched the nearest crystal in hopes of drawing in its power and stared in horror.

The crystals had become green, the same green as the human's eyes.

A flake of white drifted before her face. Snow again. She looked balefully up and the ceiling of the corridor was gone, replaced by a dark and starry sky... and she gasped. Something writhed in that sky, a mass of colored light. It was like nothing she had ever seen in her life, and its beauty mesmerized her for a moment that seemed like a lifetime. She had no word for such beauty...

_Aurora Borealis_.

She rose slowly and looked at Jean-Paul. The colors of the apparition, the aurora, glowed around him, but here they were fearsome. She could see in his eyes and sense from his mind that he no longer acted with conscious thought. Reflex, emotion, _spirit_. Those were his weapons now. Perhaps even without her interference he would not remember this moment.

It was not a risk she could take. "I am Tanmari." She wasted no time trying to reverse the changes he'd made to her world. "The mind is _my_ domain, and _I_ am master of the mental realm!"

No fear. He was only human. A human with a terribly powerful mind, but human nonetheless. She reached towards him with her mind. He lashed out, but this time she did not retreat. She pressed on, slapping aside his attempts to fight her off. Yes. She was Tanmari. No human could truly prevent her from reading what rested in their mind. Not here. Not on the mental plane.

It was closer to the surface than she would have imagined. An image. _This_ image she knew, recognized, and it was a very simple matter to pluck it from his mind and use it against him.

The corridor filled with flame.

* * *

Cossette lay on the jack table, readying herself for the run ahead, trying not to fight the drugs. _Relax_. That was the most important thing. Relaxing, letting herself drift into sleep... she closed her eyes and embraced the darkness, waiting for it to take her into Electra's metal body.

An image invaded the darkness.

She screamed.

"Boss!" She felt Ratchet shaking her but could say nothing, do nothing... she saw fire, fire everywhere, and looked around in search of the dark figure descending from the sun. She did not see it.

What she saw was a human form slumped amidst the flames, and another standing over the first in triumph. The standing figure reached down, touched the first one's forehead, and the flames faded away. She wheeled forward quickly to see what was happening and a slight tug at her hand startled her. There was a thread there. As she followed it she saw it connected to the slumped figure, now recognizable as a man.

The standing form was female and she looked at Cossette, radiating malevolence. "Never, human!" she hissed. "It will not be allowed! I do not care if you _do_ have the Ability, or whatever power this one has! The whole of humanity will die before you are allowed to destroy the great star!"

_What?_ "Wait!" Cossette yelled after her. Did she know something? Something about that terrible dream, of the exploding sun and the beast emerging from it? But she was gone, leaving only the man and the thread.

Then even that was gone as Cossette awoke, in her own body and not the HAR. "Ratchet," she whispered shakily, "I think we should call this run off."

"She-demon..." Despite his words, his voice was grave. "It's only January, an' ya just won understatement o' the year."

* * *

Misty found him in a dark corner of the complex, ghost-white and breathing only shallowly. _This is a problem_. She could not hope to carry him, and he would not be pleased at all if she called medics.

A cursory check showed no apparent serious injuries, though blood was seeping out a tear in his uniform at the right shoulder. She took the risk of shaking him. "Sir?" Surely he'd immediately jump up and snarl for her to stop calling him that. She didn't understand why it bothered him so much, and sometimes she wondered if she ought to explain... no. No, she could never do that.

Jean-Paul was a dark and solitary soul, a loner despite the charismatic front he could put up when the situation called for it. She knew this well. Refusing to name him made it that much easier to think of him as merely another employer, rather than focusing on his quick mind and those hauntingly vivid emerald eyes.

"Sir!"

It did not work. He did not spring awake in agitation. She was about to summon a medic, and his hatred of doctors be damned, but then he shifted. "Misty..."

"Sir, what happened?"

His eyes flickered open slowly and she thought he shook his head, though perhaps he was simply too weak to hold it straight. "Where... is she..."

"She?"

"Angel..."

For a rather long moment Misty wondered since when Jean-Paul was a religious man, then understood he must be talking about Angel, the Ganymede competitor, and not some divine apparition. Which really, she ought to have realized to begin with. "Did she do this to you, sir?"

His gaze fixed on her. "Don't, Misty." His voice was hoarse, but growing stronger. "Please don't call me that anymore."

She tried to remember the last time the word 'please' had come out of his mouth as something other than an interjection. "It is respectful."

"No. Use my name..." He struggled into a more or less upright position. "I... don't know what just happened... but..." He shook his head. "It was Angel. I think we fought... but... all hazy now... like it didn't happen..." He closed his eyes. "Misty. Use my name... to remind me that I am human."

She stared at him for a long time as he sat, motionless and in silence, the only sound in the corridor the dripping of blood from his shoulder to the concrete. _Whatever happened, he's rattled_. Misty was quite certain she had never seen Jean-Paul like this before, not even during the bizarre candle ritual from not so very long ago... this was something deeper than fear, something that had shaken him to his core.

She stood and offered her hand. "Let's go and get your shoulder cleaned up. ...Jean-Paul."


	10. Final Approach

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 9: Final Approach

_A/N- I promise, this chapter being posted on June 13th was purely a coincidence, and in fact sort of creeped me out when I realized it. Oh well...

* * *

_

So this was Canada. It wasn't really like home at all. Except it was... but no, the taint of WAR stained the snow and drained the auroras of their beauty.

Corvidae Fortress was still visible if he cared to turn, far in the distance, as he walked slowly over the ice. That was behind him. He was staying there, but actually being inside the building made him feel slightly ill. It was a part of WAR's line of emplacements on the border, known formally as the Great Wall of the Yukon... though it actually extended much further south, in British Columbia. It was still called the Great Wall of the Yukon there, too. Stupid. But that was WAR for you.

Visible before him through the darkness was the other side's emplacements, the Eastern Barrier. At least that name was properly descriptive—from their perspective it was most definitely in the east. Jean-Paul happened to know that the southerners, in the Panhandle, referred to it as the Northern Wall. Whatever made them happy, he supposed. If things had not changed since he last saw the maps, the emplacement he could see across the border was Fort Corvus. Named for a constellation as all the Barrier forts were, yet an obvious mockery of the WAR stronghold it faced.

He stopped walking. Unwise to get too near the border. Actually, not so much, for him... he had the proper identification to get into the country. It just wouldn't be a very intelligent thing to do, considering the political climate. And the people back at Corvidae would doubtless wonder what he was up to.

But... he couldn't quite make out what he had come to see... he started to move again. They'd not shoot him. Were he on the other side, WAR's troops might become trigger-happy and gun down the perceived threat who dared walk near the border. But those manning the Eastern Barrier did not want conflict. Not with the company which ruled so much of humanity and its resources.

_We don't want any of this, Kreissack, all we want is to be left alone. But when you come for us, we will fight you for every inch of our land_.

That was not entirely true, unless things had changed drastically since he left. Certainly nobody wanted the inevitable war... but many would love to give WAR a good beating. It was as if there was some genetic memory, of generations ago, when the country had been but part of a larger whole... a whole which could actively fight for the world's freedom. They wished for that power again, the strength to defeat WAR and free humanity from its iron grip.

Impossible. Someday it _would_ come to military conflict, WAR versus those few countries which had resisted the Restructuring and been deemed not worth conquering economically. In Kreissack's greed not even the current power of WAR was enough. He wanted it all. And if he were allowed to remain in power, to make his move, he would _have_ it all. They would be fierce and bloody wars, but WAR could not fail.

That was what Jean-Paul had to prevent.

He could see it now, the flag flying proudly over Fort Corvus. Deep blue and scattered with a constellation of golden stars. Yes... this was why he had truly come here. The ice and snow and even the auroras may be hollow and meaningless, though they were the same as at home, because this was WAR's ground. But the flag across the border did not belong to WAR.

_It never will_. _This I swear._

He turned and walked away. It was perhaps the hardest thing he'd done since leaving in the first place, but he could not remain. He was revitalized now, renewed in his purpose, and that was all that was important. Words whispered in his head, words he had never spoken, belonging to a song he had never heard.

_Alaska's flag, to Alaskans dear, the simple flag of a last frontier.

* * *

_

Cossette wheeled into Kreissack's office and sat straighter, at attention. "You wished to see me, sir?"

He peered at her as he towered over the massive desk. He was standing. This fact was not lost on her and she seethed, but had known to expect as much. The man was, after all, a first-class jackass. "You ought to be more discreet, Cossette. I am disappointed."

She looked at him blankly. "Is that so?"

"The Nova Project will be revealed in good time."

_Dammit! _Who'd told him? Who the _hell_ had told him? No, she'd called in too many contacts, who may have tried too many other sources. It would take far too long to find the leak, so now was not the time to worry about it. Now she just had to ensure it didn't happen again... her expression remained impassive. "I have no doubt that it will, sir."

He glared. "There is no need for anyone to uncover it prematurely."

"I am certain there is not, sir."

She was pleased to see him struggling to hold in his temper. Right now, after nearly two years of tournament publicity, she was untouchable, even for Hans-freaking-Kreissack himself. After the tournament, things would be different, and perhaps even during... she would have to be careful while facing the puppet Raven, or he might just decide to destroy her HAR and possibly kill her with neural shock.

But for now, there wasn't a thing he could do to her.

"I am glad you agree," he said finally, smoothly. "And so certainly, you also agree there is no need to augment your weakness by seeking answers you cannot and need not find."

_Weakness_. She glared up at him with undisguised hatred. "Of course." She would not argue now. She would win the tournament, and then... then they'd see who was weak.

* * *

The months had gone by in a blur. Since Kreissack's admonishment she had done little in her quest to find the Nova. That, too, could wait until the end of the tournament, but the dreams were still getting worse. She had realized something, though. The man in her vision, the one with the thread... was the same as the green-eyed man in her dreams of Nova.

_Were_ the flames caused by the Nova Project, then? And who was the woman, the one who'd spoken to her with such hatred? It seemed clear she believed Cossette was behind the Nova. At least, in part.

_Dreams are only subconscious images. They are without meaning_. No, no, no! She tossed that thought aside viciously, as she had many times before. The dream was too vivid, recurring too often, and Kreissack had all but confirmed her suspicions when he called her in to lecture her on the matter. The dreams meant something, Nova meant something! But she could not learn like this...

She wheeled through the winding corridors of Cheyenne Mountain's underground area, the true headquarters of WAR, though the surrounding area was all considered part of the complex. She was wandering aimlessly, already feeling trapped though she'd only been here for two days. The place was vast, yes, and there were many HAR practice fields—for use by the defensive squadrons—which the competitors were free to use. But it was still one complex, and the competitors were still going to encounter each other.

Tension hung heavy in the air.

It really wasn't wise to become lost in thought here, otherwise one might in fact become physically lost as well. Cossette didn't worry about it. Her thoughts moved ahead to the tournament, to the competition... upon their arrival to the mountain, the competitors had been gathered together to draw their first opponents. Cossette was fighting Angel in the first round. This she did not like. Angel was still a mystery to all of them, and Ratchet reported she was piloting a Gargoyle—a formidable opponent.

Then again, Angel also supposedly had no practice with HARs beyond the training she'd been through since the tournament was announced. At least Cossette would have the edge in experience.

She turned and headed out of the mountain's depths. If she was going to be stuck here for two months with the best training and repair facilities in all of WAR's empire, she might as well make use of it. She had to win. Nobody could be allowed to call her weak... ever again.

* * *

7:08.

He looked at the clock and frowned. It ought to be 5:08, but no. Not here. He couldn't actually claim to have much in the way of a functioning biological clock (growing up with midnight sun and polar night could do that to a person), but the time still felt wrong. Always wrong.

7:09.

It was early to be shut up in his room already, but the mood in the complex was oppressive, almost painful. It took him a long time to reach anything resembling peace with this environment, and until he could adapt somewhat he'd been limiting his exposure to the outside. It wouldn't take him long. Sensei had taught him well... in that respect, anyway. Soon enough he would be able to project his usual calm without difficulty.

7:10. Mountain Zone, Daylight Savings Time. June 13th. 2097. Jean-Paul let out a deep sigh, as though he'd been holding his breath awaiting something to strike him down before this moment. He was now 27 years old.

Birthdays were a strange thing for him. Hell, time was a strange thing for him, but birthdays even more. He didn't understand the point of celebrating, it was just another day—a landmark, yes, but worthy of celebration? All having a birthday meant was that you hadn't gotten yourself killed for a year since the last one, and while an accomplishment, it was an undeniable truth that nobody escaped from life alive. Nobody. Celebrating one more year without death seemed to be tempting the reaper, who by all counts did not take kindly to temptation.

But if it was no big deal, why did he sit here in silent reverence, waiting for the exact _minute_ and then taking time to contemplate it?

He knew, of course, knew well, but it was something he didn't often like to admit. He was not thinking about the current birthday, but the past... cursing the date, if he were to be perfectly honest. Wondering if it were responsible for the situation he found himself in. Then he cursed _himself_ for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. Superstitions were just that... superstitions.

Yet he could never quite make himself fully disregard the fact...

June 13th, 2070, had been a Friday.

* * *

"Way to go she-demon, ya nearly fried my panels!"

"Keep your panels out of my way then!"

There was laughter in Cossette's voice as she looked down at the training dummy, still arcing with electricity after she'd overloaded it with a ball of lightning. Though not fully-functional HARs, the armored dummies here could be caused to move and attack somewhat, and they were actual metal—not holograms—which made them quite a bit more useful for the pilot doing the training.

Ratchet had been in the command center, directing the actions of the target as well as monitoring his boss's HAR. Apparently the control panels had disliked her preferred method of dealing with the problem. "Don' wreck the course, mmkay? Ya might piss some people off."

"Oh come on, it's not as if I'm the first person to use an Electra around here. They probably just programmed some shock feedback into the panels so the controllers wouldn't get lazy."

"Well, yeah, WAR'd do that, wouldn' they."

She moved on to a different dummy, letting the auto-repair systems deal with her first victim. Not technically a training _course_, as there was no set path to run, this particular practice field was deserted and that pleased her very much. She'd had to share courses with several of the competitors over the last few days, and it was grating for many reasons.

First, there was the distrust between those fighting for Ganymede. But the other problem, one perhaps even slightly greater now, was that scouting had been rather difficult up until this point. The competitors had focused on their own training and had not spared the resources to spy on others. But, training on the same field as someone else was not conducive to keeping your style a secret.

Even as she mused on the benefits of being alone, her sensors raised an alarm. "Boss, ya've got company," Ratchet announced rather unnecessarily. "Shadow incomin' from the entry, but looks like he's headin' fer the other side."

"Shadow?" she repeated blankly. _What the hell is a Shadow?_ Then she remembered and groaned. _Not him again_. "You mean you're actually going to tell me he's here instead of letting us try to beat each other to bits this time?"

"Well, see, I don' wanna hafta fix the ol' shock boat up from a real HAR fight until I gotta. If ya keep gripin' at me instead of watchin' what yer doin' it won' be an issue anyway..."

She ducked a punch from the dummy she was fighting which might easily have taken her head off. "Okay, good point."

Cossette did not see the Shadow during that training run, but something did occur to her as she moved to a third target. Something she should've realized a long time ago, had she not been too busy with her anger at the man.

Jean-Paul had green eyes.


	11. Round One: Beginning

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 10: Round One

* * *

The hangar was deserted at this time of night, other than a single crimson-haired figure slowly making his way through. He found the wing he was looking for, entered his security code, and stood before the newly-painted HAR in its berth.

He frowned. Something didn't quite look right.

Much was correct, the Shadow's flexible underbody painted a soft orange, accents and talons in gleaming white. Unlike many of the competitors he had felt no need to order a lavish, decorative paint job... it was all going to be scraped or burnt off anyway, what was the point? His one concession to vanity was on the wrist plates, both banded with swaths of iridescent, multicolored paint. The uninitiated would wonder why he would want his fighting machine to wear painted rainbows, but who cared what they thought?

_He_ understood the representation. _Aurora_.

The problem was not with these colored bands, either. The problem was with the rest of the armor plates. The hangar was dark, but it seemed like a very strange shade of red...

He walked right up to it and poked one of the curving plates over the foot, gratified to feel some of the still-wet paint come off on his hand, and quietly left the hangar for an area of better light. Once in the hallway he looked down at his hand.

Three fingertips were covered in a brilliant magenta.

Jean-Paul laughed. It was soft, but genuine and energetic, and he fell against the wall to keep himself upright. "Pink!" he whispered in a strained voice, strained in his attempt not to yell out with mirth. Obviously someone's signals had gotten horribly crossed. Truth be told, he didn't care that much—since it _was_ going to get scraped and burnt off anyway—but... "Misty is going to have their _heads!"

* * *

_

Ibrahim Hothe stood on one side of the room, quiet and confident, unwilling to become overwrought despite the importance of this moment. It was the first round. Where it all was to begin. He was... exhilarated, if anything. It would be a glorious battle.

The referee motioned him forward, then his opponent. Ibrahim gave him a cordial nod. Jean-Paul merely watched him with quiet suspicion, and he sighed. _So much for a friendly match_.

"Jean-Paul Delaney, you are first alphabetically, thus you have the first call."

There were three numbered coins in a small, dark box. He would call one, a coin would be withdrawn, and if he were correct, the arena would be his to choose. If he were wrong, Ibrahim would be given a chance. If neither chose the correct number, a random arena would be selected.

"Three."

The coin turned out to be one, and was replaced. Ibrahim thought for a moment, but the number Jean-Paul had called felt very _right_ to him now. "Three."

The referee pulled a new coin, looked at him, and nodded. "The draw is yours. Where do you wish to battle?"

It was all the same to him, truthfully. It wasn't a matter of where they fought, but when, and what else might interfere with their contest. He smiled broadly. "I see no reason to take some long trip to an exotic locale, just for a HAR fight. The Stadium will suit me fine."

The arena in the heart of Cheyenne Mountain itself, a simple large room without hazards or traps. There would be no fortunate strikes by outside forces to impede a pure and honest battle. And there would be no need to transport either pilot or HAR... they could fight later that day, in fact. The referee set the time and dismissed them.

Jean-Paul glanced back at him with some curiosity as he left, and Ibrahim fell into step beside him. "I hope the choice is acceptable to you."

"I'm sure it wasn't meant to be."

Ibrahim shook his head, though he knew that was how most of the competitors would think. "Perhaps you see the draw as the first part of the battle. I would prefer to see it as setting the stage for the fairest fight possible."

The young man's frown deepened. "That is not an intelligent attitude."

"Maybe, but it is wise."

"A difference without a distinction."

"Not at all." Ibrahim gave him a pointed look. "Intelligence is a gift. Wisdom is earned."

For a moment something dark and angry flared in Jean-Paul's eyes, but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. Ibrahim wondered if he had imagined it. "Perhaps that is so," he agreed softly. "But my intelligence will give me victory."

Ibrahim smiled. "Victory is not given. It, too, is earned."

Jean-Paul did not respond.

* * *

Preliminary reports, from the early days of training, had put Jean-Paul in a Katana. Ibrahim was pleased with that, as he knew well how to handle the ferocious machine. He smiled as he jacked in. Jean-Paul himself might be an enigma, but his HAR presented no surprises, and that was Ibrahim's greatest advantage.

_I could take apart a Katana in my sleep. Now I just have to do it in the arena_.

He awoke inside the Thorn, and his confidence fled so rapidly he almost felt his chest cave in from the vacuum. The machine across from him possessed three distinctive properties.

One, it was moving—Jean-Paul had apparently jacked in before him and was already getting adjusted. No problem.

Two, it was pink. That was really very odd. But no problem.

Three, it was not a Katana. In fact, it wasn't a HAR he'd ever seen in his life. And _that_ was a problem.

"Graham, what _is_ that thing?" he demanded of his tech, rapidly working to calm himself. There was no sense panicking. So he was facing an unknown HAR... tough luck for him. He could still fight, and a HAR was only as good as its pilot. He'd happily face Jean-Paul in physical combat any day. He had lost one edge, that was all.

Being so taken by surprise still irked him, especially when he'd been focused for a battle against a Katana and _not_ a battle against Jean-Paul._ If we'd gone to a different arena I would have seen his HAR in transit._ No, now wasn't the time to kick himself over his choice. He had a fight to win.

"The databases state it is a Shadow," Graham reported. "But..."

"But you can't tell me any more about it, because it's against the rules."

"Yessir."

Fair enough. He faced the Shadow, then watched the small icon on his HUD which would declare the match's official start.

_Green_.

He charged.

The Shadow crouched, Jean-Paul apparently ready to fight with the same defensive attitude he possessed in public. If that pleased him, so be it. No other HAR was as good as the Thorn at forcing through a weakness in an enemy's defense. The two were only testing each other on this run, Ibrahim knew, and the Shadow slapped the monofilament spike away just before impact.

He only backed away slightly, not ready to let up so easily. _No, we aren't nearly finished here_. Two more strikes were both blocked and then Jean-Paul had had enough, throwing a punch of his own to cover a retreat all the way to the wall.

Jean-Paul was quite fast. Ibrahim, not so much, under normal circumstances. These were anything but normal circumstances... he focused, glancing at a panel on the HUD as he did so. His gaze activated certain controls and he felt new energy pounding through him. Spikes up, he charged again, and the world went rushing by him almost twice as fast as it had the last time.

He was ready to adjust for his opponent's inevitable dodge, but the dodge didn't come. The other HAR just stood there looking at him. _What is he doing? _Letting the Thorn connect at full force so easily would be suicidal, even at this early stage in the game. Perhaps he meant to block, but there was no motion for that either. "Is he mad?"

It had gone out over the channel to his tech. "Never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake, sir," Graham advised. Ibrahim had a moment to register the wisdom of this, and then he'd cleared the gap and braced for impact.

At the last possible instant, the Shadow jumped. In three directions. It was probably very fortunate for Ibrahim that the maneuver was so startling, or he might not have come to the dead halt which prevented him from slamming into the wall. He heard Graham let out a string of profanity and deactivated that channel for a moment, though he shared the sentiment. _What the...?_

One Shadow had gone directly over top of him, one to either side. Obviously he had to go after _one_. Jumping over a Thorn with its spikes up was almost as mad as just standing there and taking the hit, so he ignored that one and went with his gut instinct, which told him to follow the Shadow on _his_ right—that being the left-handed Jean-Paul's better side.

Wrong. He'd barely had time to round on the HAR when it seemed to fade out of existence, as did the one which had gone over his head. Already the real Shadow was coming at him, obviously thinking to take advantage of his surprise. _Not so easy_. An interesting diversionary move, and it would draw the battle out longer, but Ibrahim wasn't about to let it decide this battle. He set himself, ready to sweep out with the larger elbow spikes as soon as the Shadow entered range.

It stopped just outside the extremes of his reach and its outline seemed to flicker, much as it had before dodging his charge. Then it bent its knees, twisted, and slid at him... except it was also standing up.

Ibrahim wanted to ignore the illusion. _He wants to fight with shadows, but shadows hold no fear for me._ Yet the sensors warned that the both objects were real and metal... his moment of indecision was too long and the shadow smashed into him with a very solid impact. Before he could get in a retaliatory shot, it faded away.

_Well. This just got vastly more interesting_.

* * *

Angel had won the draw and chosen to fight in the arena known simply as the Desert—a wide expanse of sand in the Sahara. The fighters which frequently strafed the area would be annoying to both sides, but Cossette could certainly understand the choice. There was no ceiling, as in most arenas, to limit the Gargoyle's flight.

The decision had worked well so far, and Cossette's armor had been nearly breached in several places. It was still barely enough to slow her down. Damage was nothing. Pain was nothing. Her tesla coils still worked, and now she cast out shards of electricity to pelt the insolent Gargoyle as it came swooping down on her again.

Damage wasn't the strongest point of that particular technique, and the Gargoyle's armor showed no visible scars, though some more paint was stripped away. It was almost a shame—the shades of blue, textured to suggest feathers, had been quite beautiful, and Cossette had to admit she'd enjoyed looking at it before.

On the other hand, the loss of its paint _now_ meant the Gargoyle could not blend into the sky so easily. Priorities.

The sparks did push the Gargoyle back. Angel had shown she was intelligent enough not to even try flying through the bits of electricity, especially with her own armor looking none too good either. Even one shard hitting the wrong circuit could immobilize an entire limb, rapidly changing the course of the fight. Of course Angel wouldn't be so foolish... and Cossette wouldn't be that lucky.

The Gargoyle's wings pumped rapidly, whipping up a cyclone of wind and sand. _She's good_, Cossette admitted grudgingly. _The problem is, she's _too_ good_.

Cossette dodged the attack—many might have tried to plow through it, but she knew the fierce winds would be like a sandblaster, shredding circuits and wearing what was left of her armor away. Angel had shown good form in dodging her lightning spheres, so she would have to get in close enough to the Gargoyle to touch it and send the high voltage at her command leaping throughout its frame.

Gargoyle took to the air again. _Well, so much for that_.

"Careful, yer taxin' the left arm a tad," Ratchet warned. "Looks like one o' those hits earlier knocked the shieldin' a little outta alignment."

"Got it."

There were other problems with this fight, also. Cossette could adjust to the Gargoyle's unimpeded flight, and its ability to dodge her at range. But Angel was somehow able to read her flawlessly, as if she knew every move Cossette was going to make before she made it. Most of the hits Cossette had gotten in were counterattacks—precious few times had she managed to land an attack she'd initiated.

Time to change that. Angel was bearing down on her again.

The Electra coiled up, shooting lightning within its own body to contract it in a way only the loosely-jointed HAR could contract. Curled into a spiky ball the Electra shot upwards, the wind rushing by the not-terribly-aerodynamic form with a thunderous roar.

She hadn't used this technique before and it seemed to catch Angel by surprise, though not enough that she couldn't dodge and let the Electra fly past. That was fine. Cossette straightened out in midair, now just above the Gargoyle, and activated both coils at their maximum voltage.

Twin lightning bolts shot between the two HARs, connecting them for a moment that seemed very long. The Gargoyle crashed to the sand, and a few moments later the Electra did the same, though at least it landed feet-first.

"Boss, enough!"

Coming at the same moment as Ratchet's yell, a shrill alarm pierced her auditory sensors and she tried to back off, but not fast enough. The entire left forearm of the Electra shattered in a spray of light and sparks as the shielding could no longer contain the electricity being generated within it.

Cossette had a fairly high tolerance for pain. She'd had to develop it long ago, in the Arena—the injury that had crippled her had not exactly been painless. But even she could not take the sensation of her arm literally _exploding_ without a scream, and she sank down, instinctively trying to clutch at the wounded limb though the Electra had no hands.

Almost immediately she was trying to recover, because she knew Angel would not back off for something as minor as her enemy being in excruciating pain. After all, that was sort of the point of this whole ordeal. Cossette expected no quarter.

She got what she expected. The last thing she saw before blacking out was the Gargoyle flying rapidly forward, just along the ground, talons outstretched as it bore down on her.

* * *

The opening round of combat had taken a week to complete, from Jean-Paul and Ibrahim in the Stadium, to Crystal and Steffan far away in the Fire Pit on Mars. The gambling community could not have been in greater shambles if a meteor had hit Neo Vegas.

Ibrahim had lost. The heavily favored HAR expert had fallen to some upstart with a prototype machine, a withdrawn genius who ought not to know how to fight.

Cossette had lost. If Jean-Paul's win was a surprise, Angel's was the incredible shock, the one that _nobody_ had predicted. She wasn't supposed to know anything about HARs, and she didn't even work for the company. How could she defeat Cossette—who, wheelchair or no, was certainly a veteran fighter, and knew her Electra inside and out?

The other outcomes were perhaps less stunning, though no less relevant. Steffan and Crystal, what some had derisively called the Battle of the Babes, had in fact been a much better fight than any had thought. Both competitors had showed skill levels they were not expected to possess, and it had taken nearly an hour for Steffan to pull out the win.

Christian and Milano, billed as a relatively even match, had made Christian look rather foolish as Milano danced about the Danger Room. He had been all but untouchable.

Shirro and Raven, both with heavy odds for winning the whole thing, had not disappointed. Shirro's eventual victory was ascribed primarily to his winning the arena draw, his Flail's spiked treads able to navigate the rough ground of Seneca Crater far more easily than his opponent's wide-based Pyros.

Five had won. Five had fallen. Even the fallen would have their second chances, of course...

And so the first round came to an end.


	12. Allies of Convenience

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 11: Allies of Convenience

* * *

Cossette found him quite by accident in Wright Park, just on the edges of WAR's complex. It wasn't the sort of place she would expect to find someone like him, she had to admit. Weren't geniuses supposed to lock themselves away with computers and books? Not spend their free time outside surrounded by life and beauty... 

_Well, no, not really_. Most people would consider _her_ a genius, and she was out here, wasn't she? Of course, she didn't have his antisocial reputation.

No sense dwelling on it. He was here, and it was as good a time as any. She wheeled closer and he did not react, sitting on a short wall with his legs drawn to his chest, eyes lifted to the stars. "Jean-Paul." No answer. Did he not hear her, or was she merely not worth acknowledging?

Probably the second. "Jean-Paul!"

"I'm so glad you know my name, Cossette," he declared without looking at her. "You get an A for the day."

She rolled her eyes. This wasn't going to be easy at all. Then again, it occurred to her she'd just heard him speak more in two sentences than most people did in a week. Perhaps that was a good sign... "For some reason, despite your being an insufferable jackass, I've been looking for you."

"Handy. I haven't been looking for you, but since you're here, I _do_ have a question."

Now his eyes met hers, and they both spoke at the same moment. "What do you know about Nova?"

A deathly silence fell over them as each registered the other's words. Cossette searched for a reply to it. What could she say? How could she explain why she had sought him out, to ask that question... that very question which he had posed to her? How could she explain the dream?

Why did he ask? Did he too watch the Nova from afar? Did he see her behind it?

She was surprised when his voice broke the silence. "I know that it is evil."

"Yes," she agreed, looking at him again. His emerald eyes were piercing, intense, trapping her into eye contact yet trying to force her away at the same time. She did not let his gaze overwhelm her and blazed back with her own fierce blue. "Yes. Evil."

They remained locked in a bond more mystical than material and she knew, in that moment, that he too had been having the dreams. He was the man who lay broken in the fire, the one who stood behind the demon creature and watched it with terrible hate. She had no need to ask him. She knew. And she knew he could see the dreams in her.

"You aren't like them," he said softly. "You are not looking for power."

Wasn't she? But he was right, she realized with a start. She simply hadn't considered that before, not put it in those words. Once he spoke it, she knew it was true. The power was a secondary concern—a nice benefit of winning, but only an added bonus. All she honestly wanted to do... was to prove that she was not inferior.

"True," she agreed. "Power is not my goal."

"Then we are not enemies."

"No." The monster, the Nova, was the enemy. "We are not."

* * *

Angel's head snapped up. The Ability was screaming out, in a way it should only scream in the presence of Tanmari. Something had happened. Something... terrible, and yet wonderful. She reached up and her fingertips brushed against her chest to feel the heart beating within it. 

The one called Cossette possessed the Ability. Jean-Paul had something else, something deeper, something she could not understand. The two had touched, and it had shaken a portion of the mental plane. A small area, a slight quake. But she had felt it.

She closed her eyes. _Something has gone wrong!_

_Be calm, young one_. The High Elder's voice was comforting.

_But those who would destroy the Life-Giver... they have... they have accomplished the impossible, they have empowered the thread, they have created a seal of souls!_

There was a long pause. _Yes. We now sense the new seal. But they are merely human, they do not know what they have done._

_Is it not still binding?_

_Yes._

_Then it is a threat! I must—_

_You must be calm, young one! All of Tanmir hangs in the balance of your mission._

_Does not the fate of our moon also lay with the Life-Giver?_

_Yes. But these two have not the power. Not even the entire race of the Tanmari, with all of the power of the Ability, could even disrupt the shine of the great star C'keir, never mind a single seal between two humans. Do not fear. Continue your mission._

Angel seethed with frustration. _The humans speak of a Nova Project. Nova is the human word for the cataclysm... the humans plan to cause it! I am certain!_

_Then when you become their leader, you can stop it._

Angel's eyes widened. Of course. How foolish could she be?_ Yes. ...You are right, of course. Forgive my panic._

_There is nothing to forgive, for your mission is grueling. You have the right to feel stress._

That pleased her, reassured her. It would be a terrible thing to shame herself with a mission of such importance resting on her shoulders. But something else... something at the edge of her mind, that made her venture a last question. _What purpose could the humans have... to destroy the great star? The Life-Giver grants its warmth to all, gives them life just as it does us!_

There was a long pause._ ...This, we cannot fathom. If you can learn, report. We must know how deep the human madness runs. Only then will we know how to deal with them once you are successful._

_Of course. I will do as you say_.

* * *

Jean-Paul did not know where to go from here. He hated not to know. But it hung there in the early evening chill, the fateful words... the understanding, the agreement, that they were not truly foes. That there was a greater evil which each of them worked against, and could fight together. 

"Nova must be destroyed," she said. Vengeance now flared in her eyes. He did not know precisely what she had to avenge, but he could suspect.

And she was right. For Alaska, and for his own vengeance upon the man who had taken his life away from him. "WAR must be defeated. Kreissack must be stopped."

She looked doubtful. "Is so much possible?"

Between the two of them? Not likely. Yet, everything started small, and they would find others who agreed. They were the first, the core, and their belief would gain strength. They could not fail. "Of course it is."

"Then we will do it."

A soft whisper echoed in his mind. _All is possible within the mental plane_. He blinked, trying to figure out where it had come from, because he was certain he'd heard those words before. No, that wasn't important. He looked back to Cossette. "We will work together, then?"

"To an extent. I'm not going to throw any matches."

He smiled faintly. "Good. That wouldn't help us. Whoever is better must advance."

She nodded in agreement. "We can keep looking, compare information. And at least we know if _one_ of us wins, the end is the same."

He doubted that. She agreed now, haunted by dreams and consumed by her hatred and bitterness towards Kreissack. Perhaps she did not care for the power, but if she won, she was rather unlikely to lead a rebellion against WAR as he was planning. That was fair. It would do, for the moment. Nova was the immediate evil. For now stopping the Nova would be enough.

If Cossette proved a threat to his ultimate goal later, he could take care of that problem when it came up.

"Do not," he warned finally, "expect to start liking me any better. We may work together, but I see no need to change anything else. I am still, in your words, going to be an insufferable jackass." He stood to go. "We are not enemies... that does not make us friends. This is an alliance of convenience. No more."

Her smile was almost feral. "I would have it no other way."

* * *

That night there was something different about his dream. No, calling it 'something different' was a laughable understatement. The dream of the Nova did not come to him at all. 

Instead he found himself in a world that seemed to be carved of emerald. It was, at its most basic, a vast plain, but great faceted crystals shaped the landscape, seeming also to light it with a soft greenish glow. It was slightly eerie, and yet, he had an odd sense of comfort... he sat on a nearby crystal and looked up at the sky, dark and spotted with stars.

His breath caught in his throat. It was snowing, and the aurora shimmered overhead.

_I have seen this place before_. That was not right... he was quite certain no place like this existed, anywhere in human space and probably beyond. Yet it was unquestionably familiar to him, for more reasons than the lights in the sky.

Maybe if he looked around he would learn something. It seemed like a strange dream, no outside forces shaping its course. Merely himself and the crystals. He drew in a deep breath... he enjoyed this place. It was as though he stood within the core of his very soul, and all the pain and fatigue of two years of training, of battles and nightmares, drained away.

He heard rushing water, and frowned. _Strange_. Though sound echoed erratically off the crystals, he could make out the source clearly enough to follow it, and soon enough came to a stream rushing over the crystals. In the light of the emeralds, the water seemed very dark. Dark, and a faint coppery smell lingered about it.

Jean-Paul reached down and let his fingers brush against the water, though it only confirmed what he had already guessed. Even though it was flowing faster than it had any right to, the liquid was blood.

He remembered...

* * *

_Sensei would be shamed by your using your training in this way._

_When sensei left, he said I had to find my own path._

_He did not mean this._

_He ought to have said so._

_Then he was a fool to trust your intelligence?_

_My intelligence, no. My good intentions, yes._

He moved within the shadows, though the area was quite deserted and there was no one to see him. His prey _might_ sight him if his movements were not shrouded and silent. He was not quite ready for that yet.

Intonjutsu. The art of concealment. Only one facet of sensei's art, but one of those he had best developed since his teacher had returned to Katsushai.

It was essential that the confrontation be at a time, place, and method of his choosing. There were times he wondered if this was why he'd asked sensei to teach him in the first place... he had been only a child, but had some deeper nature told him someday, he would be a hunter of men?

_No! Not men. They are animals. This is an execution of evil._

Wasn't he too intelligent to see the words in such strict terms of good and evil? Or was it merely his vengeful fury, overriding all reason? No. They _must_ be evil. He had to wreak vengeance upon them, and surely he would not harm anyone who was not evil.

Surely not. He was not like them.

The streetlights here were not functioning. He'd not be immodest enough to claim that was fully his doing, but the repairmen _would_ find the wires slashed when they came to investigate the matter. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to get the access codes for the control panels. A great deal. It was all worth it now.

He slipped around them, easily. They were not moving quickly, and that changed to a dead halt when the dark form appeared in front of them.

Both tensed, as any reasonable person would do when confronted with a silent shape watching them from the darkness. The man's green eyes narrowed, but his tone was polite. "Can we help you with something?"

"Perhaps you can." He waited. They had to know why they were to be killed this night.

But silence reigned. "With what, then?" the man finally asked.

It was Jean-Paul's turn to frown. _Did you really think you'd be recognized? Especially here in the darkness._ "Do you remember me?" he asked. His voice was low. Dangerous.

There was another long silence, and then he saw the woman discreetly going for the cell phone sticking out of her purse.

_Damn them!_

The throwing star barely even glinted in the darkness. A firearm would have been faster, more efficient—she actually managed to get the implement out before the fiberglass projectile sank into her throat. But then again, efficiency had many facets, and Jean-Paul was a lousy shot. He'd prepared for this for a long time. It was entirely too late to decide he'd brought along the wrong equipment.

The man had frozen and now there was fear on his face. "Who _are_ you?"

"I am an avenger." His voice was soft. Almost gentle, even. "Those who sacrifice children deserve only death."

Green eyes met green, and Jean-Paul knew his victim understood.

A second shuriken leapt forth.

* * *

He withdrew his hand from the stream of blood, slowly, and closed his eyes. The memory had been so vivid here. It was like reliving it all over again. Not something he wanted to do, if he were to be perfectly honest. 

_No. I have no regrets._

It was, of course, a lie. But it was a lie he could live with. He had other, more pressing matters to deal with now.


	13. Round Two: Overkill

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 12: Round Two

* * *

Steffan Tommas paced inside his room in the transport, contemplating the upcoming battle. His win over Crystal had been magnificent. Only the first step. He would win this, because it was his destiny. Not only to win a measly tournament, of course. The leadership of Ganymede would put him in position.

Position to take Kreissack's power for himself. He smiled in anticipation.

Then he frowned, remembering the draw.

"_The draw is yours. Where do you wish to battle?"_

_Jean-Paul was hesitant for a moment, as though he hadn't actually considered the question before now. Then a faint smile crossed his face, a cunning gleam sparked in his eyes. "Conamara."_

Conamara Chaos, actually, was the proper name of the region. It wasn't a true arena, and quite a few people had looked surprised when he'd selected it. But HARs _did_ fight there on occasion, and there'd been no list of 'acceptable' arenas to choose, so here they were on their way to Europa.

The problem was that the chaotic terrain was rough and unstable, difficult to navigate. Difficult for many HARs anyway. Steffan's Chronos, which could teleport practically at will, would have a vast advantage in mobility over his enemy's Shadow, which had demonstrated some interesting abilities but was still a conventional HAR as movement went. To have chosen Conamara, Jean-Paul obviously knew something about the area that Steffan didn't. He wasn't worried, but he _was_ annoyed.

He wandered out to one of the observation decks, where he found the subject of his thoughts staring out the window. "Ready to lose, Pinky?"

No response. Maybe it was the 'Pinky' crack... his HAR had been repainted since then, which didn't mean Steffan couldn't still make fun of it.

"Hey, c'mon. We're stuck on a shuttle together, might as well talk."

"There is nobody to talk to."

"I'm right here."

"As I said."

Steffan snorted. "It's just a friendly competition, right? I know even you don't mind talking sometimes. Why not have a chat before I whip your ass?"

"Because I have no respect for you."

"Oh. Well that changes _everything_." Steffan leaned against the wall and grinned at him. "No problem, quiet boy. Don't have to talk. Just watch and learn. I give you... oh, thirty ticks before you fall."

Jean-Paul turned and looked at him for the first time since he'd entered the room, his eyes cold and deep like some emerald void. "You are nothing." He turned from the window and walked away, never looking back.

* * *

Jean-Paul was still seething as he jacked in, though he didn't know why he let the stupid brat bother him. Perhaps it was that grating overconfidence. _And when _I_ think you're arrogant, you're in pretty bad shape_. What had Steffan done, anyway? He'd taken an hour to beat Crystal, someone with nothing but speed, luck, and a family name on her side. What an accomplishment. Hadn't Jean-Paul defeated the master of all HARs, Ibrahim Hothe himself?

Probably only because of his use of the Shadow, but hey, it wasn't _his_ fault the old man hadn't bothered to check what his opponent would be piloting.

He adjusted the helmet and paused a moment before starting the drugs flowing. "Misty."

"Yes si—Jean-Paul?"

"Time me."

She cocked her head questioningly, but did not actually ask why, so he didn't tell her. Then he was falling into sleep, letting the drugs seep through his body, and when his eyes opened again the landscape of Europa was spread before him.

_Ice! _It surrounded him, embraced him. This was more than simply the rush of jacking into a HAR, this was the pure and unbridled joy of standing in his element once more.

Steffan's Chronos stood across the frozen ground, watching him as they waited for the match to begin. It was gleaming silver—an incredible show of vanity, yet not entirely a foolish affectation. Light reflecting from the metallic paint would make it difficult to gauge the HAR's exact position. This would only be compounded by its teleportation ability.

Jean-Paul didn't plan to let either be a factor. He raised his left arm, the aurora gleaming on the wrist now blending into the proper red on both sides, and focused for a moment. A small blue icon on his HUD lit up.

He ceased his concentration, because it was not yet time to fight. But he was pleased. He had one more weapon, one Steffan didn't know about. One that would win this fight.

The match signal flashed green.

It was obvious from the Chronos' reaction that it wasn't expecting his move. That was only fair, as Jean-Paul hadn't been planning on it until about an hour ago. The Shadow raced over the ice like some impossibly swift glacier, more elemental force than machine. He heard Steffan laugh aloud as the Chronos recovered and teleported out of his way.

Expected. Desired. The left arm came up again and the blue icon lit, this time intensifying as he focused. It was an incredibly strange sensation, liquid nitrogen being pulled from his chest and mixing with traces of other chemicals as it flowed through his veins to pool in the forearm. A faint shimmer of condensation appeared around the arm as he whirled on where his sensors told him Steffan had reappeared.

A mass of pale blue shot from his hand and covered the distance between them in slightly under a second, the liquid nitrogen chilled but kept from immediately solidifying by the other chemicals mixed in. _Immediate_ was the key word. By the time the solution slammed into the lower body of the Chronos it was more than ready to freeze, covering its legs, bonding with the ice on the ground and trapping the HAR where it stood.

Out here, so far from the sun, it wouldn't even melt quickly. But Jean-Paul wanted this over with. Now.

He hadn't frozen the Chronos' arms, though he would've liked to. The ice _did_ block the exposed stasis generator from spinning. The Shadow sprang forward and landed a flurry of kicks, but Steffan managed to get in a punch to end Jean-Paul's attack. Armor shattered beneath the blow and a warning alarm sounded for a moment.

_Careful. He's strong_.

Exercising somewhat more caution, Jean-Paul managed to only be hit twice more as he pummeled the Chronos ferociously. _Don't get too used to it. If that ice were melting_... no. Not an issue. No getting lost in thought here. Just because he probably couldn't replicate this stunt didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it while it lasted...

Finally the other machine broke out of the ice, but it was too late. Steffan stumbled back, staggered, and collapsed to the ground. The damage schematics from Jean-Paul's sensors told the story. He was finished.

He glanced up at the timer in the corner of his HUD, smiled, and opened an internal channel to the still-twitching enemy HAR. "Twenty-eight."

Steffan didn't answer, but Jean-Paul knew he'd gotten the point.

* * *

"You're lucky they don't haul you in for child abuse," were Cossette's first words when they met again.

"Shirro's lucky they don't go after him too then, eh?" he muttered irritably. Cossette had lost again. It wasn't actually fair of him to insult her for the loss, it had been a close and well-fought match.

What was causing his foul mood was the memories of his own fight. Steffan hadn't been much of an opponent. Then after winning the arena draw, the battle had been all but over before they even stepped onto Europa's ice. But there had been no need to actually overwhelm the kid as he had. He'd lost control, let himself be overtaken by pure spite. _Overkill_. It bothered him quite a bit.

Cossette glared, oblivious to the way his mind was wandering. "I almost had him!"

"Almost doesn't win any battles." He sat on the nearby windowsill. His irritation was not truly directed at his ally, and it had to be grating always having people standing over her. "You should be training, not telling me off for giving that kid the thrashing he was asking for."

Her glare only intensified, and he decided to back off. He still needed her. "Have you learned anything new?" she asked finally, clearly forcing her voice to be calm.

"No. Misty's been hunting through the databases, but everything's locked up tight. I haven't had a chance to try hacking anything yet."

"Much as you'd deserve it, try not to get yourself killed. Kreissack called me in earlier this year and went off at me for even asking around. He couldn't do anything then, but between the fights and hanging around large pieces of equipment at off times of night, you know how accidents can happen..."

Well _that_ was news. "You really think he'd take a risk like that? What he really needs is stories about the tragic accidental death of a competitor who was asking around about the Nova Project."

"Hmm. Maybe you're right."

Of course he was right. He had a perfect mind. "Go train. You've got Ibrahim next, and he's looking at elimination, same as you are."

"Thanks very much," she growled at his reminder. "But I was about to go get some practice in anyway." Perhaps she saw it in his eyes... worry. Her being knocked out so early would not be good for their cause. Or perhaps she just wanted to soothe her own ego a little. Either way, she followed up with, "He'll be desperate, but I've got his number. Even he can't know the Electra better than I do."

"True." He nodded and leaned back, watching her roll out. "Good luck."

"I have skill. I don't need luck."

* * *

The most anticipated battle of the day had been Christian against Crystal. Anticipated due to some sadistic desire to see brother and sister fighting it out. They'd pulled no punches. The outcome had been unsurprising, of course, Christian had slaughtered her. He'd chosen to do so in the Stadium, making a show of it—confirming the rumors of how truly angry he was at his sister's presence in the tournament. His decisive victory had gone a long way to making up for his poor first-round performance.

Angel had defeated Milano, despite Milano winning the arena draw. Then again, he'd taken the very questionable step of choosing to fight her in the Desert. It would have usually made sense, since he would have _usually_ had superior mobility. But against a Gargoyle? Whatever the reasons for the choice, he'd paid for it. Angel was still undefeated. Neo Vegas was getting ready to riot.

Jean-Paul's win had not been so much of a surprise, only the method. The revelation of Shadow's nitrogen core had left many refusing to bet on his fights at all until they were certain they knew all the tricks his prototype HAR had to offer.

Likewise, Shirro's victory over Cossette had not been particularly unexpected. That fight had in fact gone rather according to predictions. People were beginning to think Shirro was unstoppable at Seneca Crater, as he'd used the terrain to his advantage once again.

Raven's defeat of Ibrahim had sent ripples through all observers. It wasn't so much that they expected Ibrahim to win that particular fight—though many had. More to the point, one of the heaviest favorites in the tournament as a whole was now on the brink of elimination.

The second round thus came to an end.


	14. Round Three: Reversal

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 13: Round Three

* * *

That had been upsetting, Shirro Hiritsu reflected as he walked down the hallway. It really had.

A random draw had sent himself and his young adversary to the Desert, a place where his Flail was at some disadvantage in mobility. That was fine. He knew he couldn't keep winning draws forever, and it would be a good fight.

It _had_ been a good fight, though Jean-Paul had seemed a step slow on occasion. Perhaps the shifting sand was getting to him. And the heat, of course, it was common knowledge that he much preferred cooler climates, though the effects of the desert sun were nullified somewhat by being jacked into a HAR.

He hadn't realized something was really wrong until landing the final blow, one of his chains smashing across the Shadow's waist and snapping several hydraulic links, immobilizing the other HAR from the waist down as surely as cutting a human's spinal cord. Usually when that happened, a HAR would attempt to force the pilot out. Taking such severe damage while jacked in would cause days of phantom pain at best, dangerous neural shock at worst.

Jean-Paul had attempted to override the force out, presumably hoping to soften the Shadow's fall, or perhaps even entertaining thoughts of finding some way to fight through the crippling of his machine. Not unheard of. Except somewhere between when the HAR _should_ have forced him out and when it hit the ground, the Shadow had shut down.

Shirro was no Ibrahim, but he'd spent enough time with HARs that he could recognize an aborted override. Which meant something was wrong with the pilot. Then upon jacking out himself, he'd been informed Jean-Paul had not awoken after being forced out of the HAR.

Neural shock from the particular damage he'd taken wouldn't do _that_, which meant something had been wrong with him before the battle even started. And that irritated Shirro, because it meant the young man had not been fighting at his best. He would have won regardless—the relatively light damage to his Flail would back that claim up—but a good fight could have been so much better! It was a shame.

He found the medical wing of the complex and looked around until one of the medics caught sight of him and walked over. "Can I help you?"

"Is Jean-Paul all right?"

"Oh, he'll be fine." The medic looked very aggravated.

"What was wrong with him? Or can you not tell me?"

"Probably not supposed to, but..."

"But?"

"But there's no actual regulation that I can't, and the man is a holy terror, so I don't really care." He shook his head. "Migraine, rather severe. He won't tell us anything, but his tech says he wasn't feeling well when he jacked in."

That would do it. Illness, especially headaches, could interfere with the link between pilot and HAR. "Can I see him?"

"Don't know why you'd _want_ to, but he's in there and awake. Knock yourself out."

Jean-Paul was curled up on the bed, looking malevolent. He glowered at Shirro as the older man entered.

"How are you feeling?"

A low hiss of pain and he tensed. "Do you have to talk so loud!" His voice, usually slightly gruff, was now little more than a rasp.

Shirro dropped his own voice to a whisper. "Sorry."

"No doubt. Come to rub it in?"

"Actually I came to complement you. You put up a good fight, despite the circumstances." The emerald glare remained, suspicious. Shirro sighed. "It's called sportsmanship."

"Indeed. Why did the vultures let you in here?"

It took a moment to realize that 'vultures' must be referring to the doctors, and Shirro decided he might as well go with the honest answer. "Because they think you're a holy terror. You shouldn't abuse people trying to heal you, you know."

"Easy for you to say."

Shirro understood the darker undercurrents of that statement. He knew WAR had been trying, and failing, to get Jean-Paul to volunteer for genetic research for some time now. He didn't think the paranoia was justified—thinking the entire medical community was out to dissect him? A little extreme. But at least it wasn't completely baseless.

He merely laughed in response to the comment. "True. Nobody in their right mind wants to do research on _my_ brain!"

Jean-Paul shook his head in disgust. "I don't see how you can laugh while WAR continues its experiments."

There was no need to ask what experiments he was really talking about. He met the young man's eyes and his voice became serious. "Perhaps you should consider how you can call Nova evil... when you don't even know what it is."

* * *

Ibrahim knew he'd lost. Cossette could tell. He'd lost when she chose the arena, and that was that. Now all she had to do was make his HAR realize it.

_Power Plant_.

Electra flexed its limbs, checking all systems. Everything was good to go. The walls of the power plant crackled with electricity even now, and if the HAR had a face, a vicious smile would've been on it. Any machine which hit those walls would take extra damage from the lightning pulsing through.

Any HAR except Electra, which could withstand any voltage from an external source. Until her armor was significantly breached, the 'hazards' of the Power Plant meant nothing to her.

Ibrahim's Thorn looked to her and nodded. He was ready. Maybe he thought, somehow, that he could win. But no. He would fail. She would see to it that he failed here, and she would advance.

The match light flared green.

_If I were fighting an Electra in here, what would I do? Try to breach the armor as soon as possible_. It surprised her not at all when the Thorn immediately rushed her, spikes up. Fine, if that was how he wanted to play it. She blocked the charge and before he could back away, jammed her right arm between two armor plates and powered the coil as high as it would go.

The Thorn jerked back, sparking, seeming to recover from the shock treatment quickly. That was no surprise, as Ibrahim could take a lot of pain, and had chosen a HAR to complement his natural talents. But she knew she'd done damage.

They traded blows for a time, Ibrahim always initiating. Cossette much preferred to react, make the enemy make the first move, counter with a shattering blow to make them regret getting near her. But they had no choice, they would try again. And again.

The Thorn's blows were powerful and slammed her against the wall several times, and Ratchet cautioned her. "Just cuz the lightnin' doesn' hurt ya doesn' mean the impacts won't, she-demon. No sense losin' a battle when ya got everythin' goin' yer way."

"Right." She spread her arms and let the electric shards pelt Ibrahim without mercy, making him back off for a moment. More strikes blurred between the two. Ibrahim's incredible fortitude could offset Cossette's greater strength, for a time. But she was wearing him down, she knew. More strikes, and holes began to open up over the other HAR.

"Time to get this over with." She cast out a ball of lightning from each arm, aimed squarely over the Thorn's chest. Not a chance it could take even one of them, not in the shape it was in.

Both struck, yet somehow, the Thorn did not fall.

Ibrahim struggled a step back and nodded to her, so low it was almost a bow. "I admire you greatly," came his voice over an internal comm channel, "but I _must_ have this victory!" It advanced, shedding sparks and shards of armor with each step, like some hideous mechanical zombie.

Cossette gawked. It kept coming. It sped. It ran. Spikes came up. She shot out her electric shards and the Thorn came tearing straight through, smashing into the Electra with a noise that had undoubtedly shaken the whole complex. Alarms screamed in protest as frontal armor was pierced, and plates over the back were crushed against the walls of the station.

_NO!_

The Thorn had not backed away this time, but seemed to be trying to tear her apart, using its spikes as a poor substitute for a Katana's blades. Poor, but workable, if her damage displays were telling the truth. _I will not fail. I will not fail. I will not fail_.

The Thorn remained at point-blank range, clearly content to saw through her armor all day if she'd let it. She was not going to let it. Managing to bring the Electra's leg up between them she planted its stiletto talons into what was left of the Thorn's chest armor and kicked it back with all her might. "I don't need your respect," she growled. "Just the title." Lightning sprang through circuits within the Electra, drawing it into a compact ball.

The Thorn struggled to move, but speed was not Ibrahim's strongest point in the best of circumstances, let alone with a HAR that had no business even standing upright. She caught it and felt the Electra's sharp joints smashing and tearing armor as she rolled over the Thorn and back into a standing position.

She turned, waiting for it to rise again, like the unkillable monster it was. But it remained, motionless, in a heap on the arena floor.

* * *

Cossette found Jean-Paul outside in Wright Park again. He seemed to like the place, though she did not know or care why. All that mattered to her was that it remained a reliable place to track him down. "Nice." Sarcasm dripped from her voice. "Did Shirro get taken in for child abuse again after that? At least I did some _damage_ to him."

She'd expected him to at least snarl back, but he didn't. He barely reacted at all.

"Well come on, at least yell at me. I didn't come all this way to get the silent treatment."

"Too bad." He sounded tired.

She realized with a start that something was worrying him. It would probably be good to at least pretend she cared, in the hopes of a good working relationship. Truthfully she was curious if nothing else. "I heard you were sick."

"Yes."

"You should've told someone."

"They weren't going to put off the match because someone didn't feel well."

There was bitterness in his voice, bitterness unexplained by the single loss. A bitterness that could almost match her own when she spoke of her injury. "Migraines that serious can be a sign of a larger problem. It's rather irresponsible to die because you were too proud to go to a doctor." Yes. Irresponsible. He had to remain safe if they were to stop the Nova.

He shot to his feet and glared down at her. "_Larger problem?_ You don't know anything about it!"

"Happens a lot, does it?"

Jean-Paul stiffened. Obviously he hadn't meant to let that slip. "...Yes."

"Ah." An almost hostile silence fell upon them as she considered this. She was, most of all, angry. He'd not told her of this, and apparently he wasn't going to be as reliable as she'd thought. "I had best not lose any more, then, since you can be expected to fail at the slightest headache..."

The next thing she knew she was at his level again, but it was because he'd yanked her from the chair to meet his eyes, not because he'd sat back down. "All right, you've got your reaction," he snarled, "and I hope it makes you happy." The cold in his eyes was overwhelming, and she felt she had to fight simply to avoid being sucked in and drowned. "If I'm bothering you that much, I'll lay off, because you are not expendable. Yet." His grip tightened and she knew that even slightly more pressure would cut off her air completely. "But never forget. I pay a price for what I am, just as you do. Treat me as weak because of it, and I will treat _you_ as weak for your own injury. Do. You. Understand."

She nodded. He dropped her back into the chair, turned, and stalked away.

* * *

Ibrahim was out. In three rounds. Neo Vegas actually _had_ rioted this time, though WAR's security forces had rapidly put it down. Some third of those betting on the tournament had said he would win the whole thing, and now... he was gone. And gone largely because of rotten luck, at that, as his supporters never tired of pointing out.

Crystal was out, also in three rounds. Nobody cared. Very few had thought she would win, and Milano's Shredder shattering her Jaguar at Seneca Crater had merely confirmed what most had expected.

Raven had defeated Angel, winning the draw and trapping her Gargoyle in the close confines of the Danger Room. Which was fortunate, because if Raven, of all people, had fallen to the mysterious woman, the riots would have been much worse.

Shirro's win, too, did much for calming the gambling community's mood. It wasn't as if Jean-Paul had any chance of defeating such a powerful fighter. Some who'd revised their bets after the first round kept claiming his opponent's illness was the only thing that had let Shirro win, but even if those protests had been taken seriously, they would've meant nothing to the protestors' checkbooks.

Many had expected Steffan and Christian to put up an excellent fight, Christian with newfound confidence from his second-round win, and Steffan seeking redemption for his embarrassing loss. It had not happened. Christian had won easily. It had seemed almost as if Steffan's heart were no longer in the fight, his confidence shattered from the beginning just as his Chronos' armor was shattered by the end.

The third round had finished.


	15. Shadows of the Past

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 14: Shadows of the Past

* * *

Jean-Paul was walking through Wright Park when he heard the howl. It sounded familiar, too. A howl of rage. He'd heard it before.

_Well, birdbrain, what've you done to yourself this time?_

The sound did not arise again, but it had been loud enough that he could tell where it was coming from. He took the path quickly, wanting to get there before the problem was resolved if he could.

A man was seated on a bench, snarling and cursing, his longish black hair obscuring his face as he bent over. His arms were moving rapidly and occasionally Jean-Paul could hear a strange hissing sound coming from where his legs were, along with an occasional growl.

_Okaaaay_... "Raven?"

Snarl. "What do you want?"

"You're being loud." He made it around the bench and could finally see the problem: a rather large mass of orange-brown fluff was covering Raven's shin. Within a few moments he could make out the rapidly lashing tail, pointed ears, and the claws piercing the big man's dusky flesh. "This should be a story, _do_ tell."

"Only if you'll help get this beast off me," Raven growled. It appeared that every time he loosed one set of claws from his leg, the others dug right back in. Even if he used one hand for each paw, the cat had him outnumbered. Of course he could have just ripped it off... but Raven was no idiot, and that would result in the loss of large chunks of flesh. "It was in my way, so I kicked at it! They usually move!"

Jean-Paul smirked. The sight of Kreissack's most feared and mighty bodyguard brought to his knees by _Felis silvestris catus_ was just too beautiful. Especially when it was entirely his own fault. "You know," he said as he knelt and carefully pulled one of the animal's paws out, "you shouldn't mistreat dumb animals."

"Listen, freak, I don't need you to lecture me on—"

"I was _talking_ to the cat."

Raven clearly would have kicked him, but that probably would've hurt with a cat stuck in his leg.

Between the two of them they could match the four paws—all of which were covered with blood, much to Jean-Paul's amusement as he cradled the animal in his arms. It settled in and started purring. "Shall I take your new friend home? You'll be busy finding bandages."

Raven's jet black eyes flared with fury and Jean-Paul decided it was time to leave.

* * *

He read the animal's identification tag and frowned. _Taiga. What kind of name for a cat is Taiga?_ Taiga was a good name for a forest, not a feline. _Eh. Whatever_. He scratched the cat behind the ears, wary of its sharp claws as he moved. Poor Taiga _had_ in fact been a rather long way from home.

About half an hour later he was standing in front of the correct address, a completely unremarkable house on a completely unremarkable street. Well, not his place to judge. Had he simply found the cat wandering around lost, he would probably have just put it down and left, but he imagined the blood on the paws would give the owner some concern.

Nothing else to do. He went to the door and knocked.

The man who opened the door was short, blond, and muscular, and his blue eyes went wide when he saw the cat in his visitor's arms. "Taiga! You found her! I've been looking for a week..." He caught sight of the blood on her paws. "What happened?"

Jean-Paul spoke truthfully. "She attacked a bird."

Taiga squirmed in his arms. "Mrrryat!" She sounded proud of herself.

"She would," the man muttered, taking it literally. He held out his arms, receiving the feline, then raised his head and for the first time got a good look at the person who'd brought her. His jaw dropped. "Jay?"

Recognition took a moment to set in, then Jean-Paul's expression mirrored the other man's shock. "Lance!"

* * *

_I am not weak_.

The machine was called Blade, and would probably be considered the precursor to the Katana HAR. Few direct translations were possible, though. Most HARs were developed on their own and not based off the old generation of HCRs.

_I am not weak_.

Human-Controlled Robots. A subtle difference from Human-Assisted Robots in name, but that difference was everything.

_I am not weak_.

She had been a rapidly rising star in the Arena, as both a skilled fighter and a fan favorite. Strength, talent, intelligence, striking beauty. These were the things legends were made of, and she had known it. Known it too well perhaps.

_I am not weak._

Many others in the Arena had considered her arrogant. Why not? Arrogance, not luck, was what others called talent when they didn't have any. She'd known she had enemies of course. She'd not been a fool.

_I am not weak._

It had been a mistake to assume, however. There was an old saying about what 'assume' really meant, and she should have heeded it. But no!

_I am not weak._

She'd not treated her tech badly. This she still maintained, and she went over all their interactions in her head, over and over again. No, she had been good to her, thought of her as a friend. It just hadn't been enough.

_I am not weak._

She'd patched into the Blade's comm system in the middle of a fight, nearly hysterical with grief. She'd loaded a bomb, she said, that would go off if struck. The opponent had bribed her. She regretted it now. Quit the match, while she was still alive to quit!

_I am not weak._

There was too much at stake. A match was merely that, a single battle. There would be plenty of others. She had too much potential. Yes. She'd powered the Blade down.

_I am not weak._

Her opponent had kept coming. Hadn't he heard her yield, seen the shutdown of her HCR on his panels? Of course he had, but he hadn't cared. He'd already paid the bribe. A little thing like the end of the fight wouldn't stop him from getting his money's worth.

_I am not weak._

She remembered the pain, the overwhelming, absolute pain, as the cockpit had shattered around her. She'd known she was going to die there. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. She could go out as a hero, one of the greatest stars of the sport, felled by treachery. In fact, she had even managed to smile before falling into darkness.

_I am not weak._

It had been one of her last smiles, for after some time, she'd awakened. Half of her body existed in excruciating pain... half did not. She knew better than to believe that the lack of pain was a good sign.

_I am not weak._

Still, she felt slightly vindicated by what came after. She'd kept the sabotage a secret, keeping her tech out of trouble. Had she been forgiving? Or was the word 'soft'? It was much too late to worry about that now.

_I am not weak._

Now she trusted Ratchet, but he was not the same. Nor was she, for that matter. Before she had been aggressive, vanquishing her opponents with a flurry of blows that left them wondering what had even hit them. No longer. She was defensive, reactive. An embittered warrior just waiting for someone to come near and let her punish them. She did not trust lightly. She did not flaunt her confidence, even when it boiled and overflowed in her chest.

_I am not weak._

If Jean-Paul wanted to threaten her, that was his prerogative. Cossette would happily show him how 'weak' she was.

* * *

Jean-Paul took a long sip of water and studied the man seated across from him, carefully and quietly. Lance Vernon. It had been a long time, a very long time.

"So, anyway, that's enough about me." Taiga sat on the floor beside him, and his other cat, Tundra (now the name made sense!) curled up on his lap. "What've you been up to, Jay?"

_Jay_. "Nobody's called me that since I came Outside," he commented, almost wistfully.

Lance arched an eyebrow. "Really? Thought that's what everyone called you?"

"That's what my friends call me."

"Ahhh." His old college roommate grinned, understanding the point. "Still making people drag you out of your shell, kicking and screaming, is that it?"

"Still? You don't know anything about me _kicking and screaming_."

"Yeah, probably." He shrugged. "Nothing's the same Outside, is it? Though it does look like you've done a lot better than me since leaving. Can't believe I didn't recognize you earlier, I've been following the tournament like mad."

"Probably just as well." 'Better' would not be the word Jean-Paul would use for comparing his situation to Lance's. At least Lance could go home. "I'm still trying to work out why you'd come here at all if you didn't have to. You've apparently figured it out, so maybe you've done better than me after all."

Lance grimaced. "It's not so great, I just had to get out for a change of scenery, and getting into WAR territory from Alaska's so hard I figured, may as well stay Outside for awhile. I guess you still haven't found a way to go back."

Dangerous territory. "In theory, but I'm still working on it."

"I'm glad to hear that at least."

"Myao." Tundra jumped off his lap, crossed the room, and pawed at Jean-Paul.

Lance grinned. "It's so weird that both these furballs seem to like you, they usually don't like anyone. They must know you're from up north."

"You know, leave it to you to name cats after biomes. I think that counts as cruelty to animals."

They sank into friendly banter for several more minutes. Jean-Paul was confused by what he was feeling... he should be happy. Here was one of his oldest friends, a chance for awhile to slip into a persona he had long ago thought lost. Someone from home, yet who didn't care about his entrapment by WAR, didn't see him as evil by association. A chance to exercise charisma and wit when he was usually limited to either calm confidence or outright rage.

So why _wasn't_ he happy?

In the end, Lance had options. Right now he sat here, in an ordinary house on an ordinary street, nobody watching his every move, in the company of creatures he loved. Able to go back at any time the motivation struck. He didn't understand, _couldn't_ understand what it was Jean-Paul sought to accomplish, or the madness he was going through in an attempt to reach that goal. Perhaps over time they had simply ceased to connect.

Perhaps—no, certainly—Jean-Paul was jealous.

He couldn't tell if Lance realized the track his thoughts were taking, though four years of living together had allowed the other man to read him better than anyone else ever had. But perhaps he did. It didn't manifest until he was leaving.

"Jay, you're not going to come back if you can help it, are you?"

He blinked. "Eh?"

"No, I know. I creeped you out. I hope you'll come visit again, but if you don't I'll understand." He smiled. "We're in different places now, on a lot of levels. But don't forget. I'm pulling for you. If I can help you, just come and ask." He interpreted Jean-Paul's curious look well. "Not just for the tournament. Anything. Promise?"

It was, he realized, a promise that would mean more to Lance than to him, and what the hell? He didn't foresee ever actually needing any help his friend might give. "Promise."


	16. Round Four: Pyrophobia

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 15: Round Four

* * *

CLANG!

Christian's Katana blew back and smashed into the Power Plant's northeastern wall, shuddering and jerking with electricity. Cossette's Electra had a similar impact in the southwest, though the electricity did not bother her. "Ow," she muttered wryly as she stood.

_So _that's_ what happens when a Katana and Electra go flying into each other at top speed._

Christian could take a lot of pain and he was also standing quickly. Cossette almost felt some sympathy for the young man, his mind so clouded with hatred. It was undoubtedly not easy to have your parents murdered by WAR. When she won, perhaps she would tell him the truth he so desperately sought... what she knew of it, at least.

That was one thing she and Jean-Paul _had_ managed to discover. _The Devroes were planning to talk_.

Not now, though. The fight was nearly finished and she couldn't afford to lose it by getting distracted. She gathered the Electra into a ball again. This time Christian wasn't quite crazy enough to dive at her and instead jumped away, letting her hit the other wall.

_And that, boys and girls, is why I don't launch attacks very much_.

He came after her with blades flashing, but she wasn't going to let him have it that easily. Turning to face the attack probably would have been suicidal. He was coming too fast, and she wouldn't have time to set up a proper block anyway, probably only succeeding in getting an arm sliced off.

"How's my shielding?"

"No problems."

She reached behind her and charged both coils, letting electric bolts leap across the air between them. The last time she'd pulled this stunt, it had cost her the match. Not this time. This time she expected a better result.

Cossette only held the bolts for a second or two, then powered down the coils and turned swiftly, hoping to at least orient herself before he could recover. It was much better than that—the Katana was staggering around like a drunk. "Nice." She'd either shorted out a hydraulics control or damaged the neural receptor, either of which was just fine.

Electra coiled into a ball one last time.

* * *

Jean-Paul looked across the grating at his enemy. There were some disadvantages to HARs... no deep breaths to encourage calm, no eyes to narrow with disgust and fear. Then again, at least the expressionless optical sensors might be a good thing. No sense letting Raven know the depths of his revulsion for this place until he had to.

The Fire Pit was some hundred stories below the surface of Mars, one of few arenas which had actually been built with HAR combat in mind. He looked up. It was almost dizzying, seeing how far above the sky was. He didn't mind heights... but somehow all he'd been able to think of while climbing down was how far it would look if he _weren't_ in a HAR.

The Shadow returned its gaze to Raven's massive Pyros. It didn't make sense. Here was Raven, a master in practically every form of martial arts known to man, and he was going around in a HAR with no legs or hands, sorely lessening the advantage of his knowledge. Was there actually something about the Pyros that he liked so much, or was he mocking his competition?

An expensive mockery, if that's what it was. Raven was operating with one loss to his record, just as Jean-Paul was. A loss to Shirro, just as Jean-Paul's had been. Amusing, but no reason to dwell on that now. The Pyros looked at him and Jean-Paul could almost see his enemy's sneer. "Enjoying the scenery?"

"It could use a new decorator."

"Beakers and circuits, no doubt. You're nothing but a freak who should stay in the lab."

"And you're nothing but a puppet, trying to break his strings."

Raven laughed harshly and the Pyros approached, as closely as was allowed before the match began. "There is an old story, freak, of a puppet becoming alive. I wouldn't be so confident if I were you."

Confident? How in the world could he be confident, facing the lord of all flames in his fiery hell? Not that he would admit it. Jean-Paul cocked his head and stated simply, "Meow."

Nobody else would get _that_ reference, but Raven's roar of fury was all he needed.

"Back into positions," came the referee's voice. Both HARs retreated a bit, and after a moment that seemed like a lifetime, the match icon on their HUDs went green.

Defensive by nature, Jean-Paul knew here—just as he had on the training course so long ago—that he could not afford to sit back and wait for the Pyros to come to him. He had to strike first and hope to overwhelm. Hope to prevent the flames. It would never happen against an enemy this skilled, but damned if he wasn't going to _attempt_ a good showing.

There was a sensation of tearing apart, an agonizing, painful feeling that he was being bisected by a dull knife. Then it was over and a shadow was out, leaping across the grating to land the first blow. He followed on the heels of the projection, hoping to follow up before Raven could recover.

No such luck. The Pyros smashed its arm across his chest, hard enough to send the Shadow crashing into the other wall. He was up quickly and the telltale shimmer appeared around his left wrist plate.

Raven probably saw it, though perhaps he'd been planning his next move anyway. The Pyros leveled its arm at him and a red glow sprang to life within the barrel.

A mass of semi-solid ice shot from one side, a ball of glowing flame from the other. They met in midair, and a massive cloud of steam filled the arena.

Visual sensors were useless. Thermal, not much better. That was probably why Jean-Paul spent two seconds preparing for a new attack rather than moving out of the way of the incoming fireball, its blaze weakened but not quite doused by burning through his ice, and did not even see the projectile until it impacted on his shoulder.

It had not, in fact, even hurt all that badly, but it was _FIRE_ and he cried out.

Misty's voice spoke in his ears. "If you pull more nitrogen out you should be able to overpower his fireballs, but don't use too much. Overtaxing the core can cause catastrophic failure."

"Got it." More nitrogen. That meant he would need more time. He drew liquid from the core, watched the blue icon grow much brighter than he usually allowed.

He heard a roar and saw the Pyros coming at him with all its rocket-powered speed, too fast for him to move. It broke his concentration and the icon dimmed. _Dammit! _He tossed a shadow over it and kicked out at the same time. It had been a light kick, but Raven's velocity worked against him—the Shadow's talons nearly pierced his chest armor. Wisely, he backed away.

Unwisely, he backed right into the projection, which grabbed the bigger HAR around the waist.

Jean-Paul was nearly at the limits of his concentration for that shadow, so he had to work quickly. Jumping and kicking off the wall he shot forward to slam into the hated Pyros claws-first.

He had neglected to consider one minor detail. One of the jets at the Pyros' waist turned upward and covered him in flame. Cursing, he vaulted aside, but the flames followed.

* * *

Cossette watched the match on the shuttle's holoscreen, on the way back to Cheyenne Mountain from her own match. _Fire_. It had been bad enough for Jean-Paul to have to fight Raven, but losing the draw... did it _get_ much worse than that?

"He's done for," she said softly. She was surprised she felt no triumph in this fact, that he was losing when she had not. It wasn't even his elimination fight, so what did it matter whether he won or lost, except granting her more ammunition in their quarrelsome alliance?

Ratchet looked at her. "How d'ya figure? His armor's a tad scorched, but ain't in too bad shape yet. Course he better get up and start hittin' back soon or yeah, he'll be fried."

She just shook her head. Ratchet knew of their covert alliance against the Nova, but she still hadn't told him of the dreams. The vision where she had seen Jean-Paul and the strange woman... where the fire had broken him. "He won't get up. Not unless the fire stops."

* * *

Angel was also watching the match. Necessary, for her mission. If she was to defeat the humans for the sake of Tanmir, she must learn all she could of their fighting techniques. She was still more careful to study the humans who sought to destroy the great star.

She, too, was quite certain the battle was over for the one known as Jean-Paul. After all, she had defeated him on the mental plane with the mere illusion of flame. This pleased her. _Fail, human, fail miserably. Do not gain power, and let your dreams of the cataclysm fade into dust._

It occurred to her that perhaps, his hatred of fire was what caused the madness, the madness of thinking to destroy the Life-Giver. Perhaps human geniuses need not be sane.

_Yet in their visions, the cataclysm causes fire to rain upon their world._

That fact did not seem to fit the puzzle. She pushed the thought away.

* * *

Jean-Paul forced himself to remain in a crouch. _No_. He might fear, but he would not fall. He would make Raven destroy him. He would not defeat himself.

_You have defeated yourself. You failed to conquer the fear_.

Only one fight. It was only one fight.

_Pathetic. You would throw this battle because you are a coward?_

NO. He was not going to succumb to this self-reproach here! He had done everything he could to fight the fear, and that it had not succeeded...

_Is a sign of your weakness. If you can't even do this simple thing, how will you ever overthrow WAR? Best that you will fail in this tournament, rather than failing afterwards._

Raven stopped the flamethrowers for a moment and loomed over him, savoring his enemy's futile attempts to stand. "What's wrong, freak? Can't you take the heat?" Yes, he had figured out Jean-Paul's trouble. The tournament was over for him... perhaps Raven was the only Pyros, but the others had ways of using fire. Even now he could not focus enough to cast out a shadow. He was finished.

The Pyros extended both arms again and let loose with an endless stream of flame. The fire, though a formidable weapon, was not as fast or efficient as just walking up and punching... Raven was toying with him. Jean-Paul no longer struggled against the flames, drawing himself inward. The best he could do now was refuse to give in. He tuned out the battle as best he could, even the heat of the flames, focusing on the more painful burning of the rage within him.

..._Rage. Burn_.

How could that be? There was no warmth inside him.

_No. It burns_.

The Shadow raised its head to the flame. It almost seemed the heat was lessening compared to the anger blazing in his chest.

_Can it be possible? _

A memory of too long ago, of lying and watching the stars. Some insight he had failed to grasp at the time.

_Stars. Cold. Fire. Fire hidden by cold. Fire... hidden... within..._

He understood.

The Shadow shot off the ground with a triumphant shriek that shook the entire arena. "ENOUGH!"

A burst of ice snapped between the two HARs at the same moment Raven shut off the flamethrowers in surprise, and it impacted on the Pyros' outstretched arm. The heat of the weapons still stopped the nitrogen from freezing, but the liquid poured straight down the barrel, and there was an explosion of smoke as that flamer was ruined. Two shadows followed up on the blast in rapid succession, landing punches to the massive machine's broad chest.

Jean-Paul jumped. And he laughed, the heat of the fire pit no longer bothering him, flowing through harmlessly. As it ought to. As sensei had taught him. The Shadow leapt its way up the girders on the sides of the pit, there to allow for HARs to climb in and out between battles, but still, the shaft was technically part of the arena.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Raven demanded.

"Out of your reach? Fly, little bird!"

The Pyros rocketed off the ground, having no need for the steps the Shadow was using, but that was fine. The core icon lit again and Jean-Paul held it, focusing on the ice building within even as he continued to jump.

"Jean-Paul, you're going to overload—"

"It's all right, Misty." It _was_ all right. It was beautiful. It was wonderful. Raven was gaining on him and now he let go, releasing a stream of ice nearly as massive as the HAR itself as the heavily condensed and pressurized liquid was released into open air. It smashed into the oncoming Pyros, covering it, more than even the flamethrowers could overcome, weighing it down and sending it into freefall.

Jean-Paul jumped after it.

The Pyros' impact on the ground splintered whatever ice was left on it by the time it struck, but the ungainly machine could not get up quickly, especially when it had to restart its maneuvering thrusters from the introduction of liquid and cold. Jean-Paul drew his legs up and braced himself. _This is going to hurt_. Yet he anticipated, perhaps even savored the coming pain.

Cold and brittle armor shattered like glass beneath his talons. The fire within the Pyros had conspired with the ice to weaken Raven's HAR with temperature shock. Then the armor was gone, and heat blasted over him as he impacted on the Pyros' main reactor.

A pillar of fire twelve stories high erupted over the two HARs. When it was gone, what remained was the Shadow, stripped bare of paint and with many scorched and broken patches of armor. But it stood. At its feet was the gutted shell of a Pyros... salvageable, certainly, but right now little more than twisted scrap.

* * *

Neo Vegas was rioting again. Kreissack had dispatched an Iron Fist unit to Luna in hopes of keeping the peace.

How the hell did Jean-Paul defeat Raven? Overconfidence, people finally decided. Many started changing their bets on Raven, fearing that his arrogance would lead to more losses which could have been prevented if he'd just kept his mouth shut. In the aftermath of the stunning battle, certain reporters had taken to calling Jean-Paul the Frozen Phoenix.

There were rumors that certain reporters had received death threats, but these were unconfirmed.

Milano had defeated Shirro, which was interesting. It had been the ultimate battle of strength and vigor versus speed and guts, but not many people had expected speed and guts to _win_. Yet, any who'd followed Milano's kickboxing career knew it wasn't the first time his inhuman agility had kept him safer than the toughest armor ever could. The security chief's biggest problem in the tournament was trying to make his Shredder keep up with him.

Cossette's victory over Christian was likewise interesting, as the two had been considered fairly evenly matched. She had strength, he had endurance. She was defensive, he was aggressive. The fight had been just as good as the experts had predicted, but Cossette's winning the draw had probably won her the match.

Steffan was out, one round later than most had expected him to go. Again he had seemed almost lethargic, merely going through the motions as Angel pummeled him to scrap.

And the fourth round came to an end.


	17. Denial

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 16: Denial

* * *

Jean-Paul shut down the terminal, thoroughly disgusted. "Nothing. He's set up false databases all over the network. All we can really do is keep looking."

"And hope you don't hit a security system."

"Oh, I've hit plenty of those." He didn't elaborate. Cossette was an excellent engineer, but hacking was near the bottom of her list of skills. "More to the point, hope he doesn't break through _my_ security systems."

"What are the chances of that?"

"Pretty good, _if_ someone figures out they're being played. So pretty bad." The program was brilliant in its simplicity. Publish the real identification freely, encrypt the fake. Of course, the people actually in charge of WAR system security would break through and find the truth in about five seconds.

Jean-Paul happened to know that none of them were handling security for the Nova Project. For one thing, they were quite busy with other matters, namely the tournament. More to the point, Kreissack wasn't trusting anyone in WAR with Nova's security, as Cossette had learned.

Ultimately Iron Fist was a fighting unit, not a security outfit, regardless of what Kreissack had hired them for. Their idea of 'system security' was making sure no HARs showed up to blow the Central Core, and he knew there were at least four teams out right now trying to find a member of the well-coordinated hacking effort that kept breaching false Nova databases.

It was really kind of pathetic, and he was fairly confident when he hit the _real_ database his life would get a lot harder. He hoped. Because if not, he would be incredibly embarrassed at how long this was taking.

"Then all we can do is wait for a lucky break?"

"Pretty much, unless one of your contacts comes through."

She looked frustrated. It was hard to blame her... he knew she was still having the dreams. Not so very long ago he would have mocked anyone who'd let themselves be so bothered by dreams, but having them himself had changed that.

He wasn't dreaming of the Nova as much now, though. He kept going back to the strange world of emeralds. Yet the Nova dream still returned, often when he least expected it. _What does all of this mean?_ How could the two of them end up with so close to the same dream, anyway, let alone seeing each other within that dream? It didn't make any sense... these mysteries still lurked in his mind.

It had something to do with Angel. Something to do with that night in the corridor, that night that was still a fog of fury and combat. If he could only remember that night, perhaps he would have the answers. It infuriated him. How could _he_, of all people, not remember something like that?

"Jean-Paul, are you alright?"

He blinked and looked back at her, meeting her eyes. Not at all unattractive eyes, at that. He wondered if any of the fools who called her weak had ever met that gaze and seen the strength within it.

He mentally kicked himself. _Focus_. "Fine."

She wheeled out a bit later, leaving him in a whirl of confused contemplation. He could never quite figure out what to make of her. She was brilliant, in her way, that much could not be denied. And she was strong-willed. He'd been aware of that before they'd even met, but he had not realized how deeply it went. There were very few people he could not intimidate. Yet she refused to be intimidated. If he lashed out, she struck back.

The overriding thought was that... for the first time since leaving home, no, for the first time in his _life_, he had met someone he could consider an equal.

Something deeper in his mind told him there was more to this than merely seeing Cossette as an equal. He wanted to ignore it, but the rapid pounding of his heart would not cease.

* * *

Angel sat in meditation. She had shed her human form, the better to clear her mind for the task ahead. To humans she would have resembled nothing so much as a tangled mass of shimmering silver threads. Once, of course, the Tanmari had been primarily physical beings, same as the humans. That was how she could assume their form so easily, but no longer was it her basic appearance.

In her meditation she could tap into the dreams of the two humans. The one called Cossette was important, for her vision continued to transform. Angel preyed on that vision, seeing what the humans no doubt did not want her to see.

Jean-Paul was different. His vision changed, yet it seemed sporadic. She had found the pattern soon enough. For him, the dream evolved only after he had met with Cossette.

_Yes_. The human woman's Ability had somehow infected him. He was granted the dreams, but the dreams did not originate with him, merely adapted to fit within his own mind. He was unimportant.

He could be attacked.

_I shall flay his mind. He will not awaken. The cataclysm, this Nova Project, will be disrupted_. She still expected to win the tournament, but her loss to Raven in the third round had reminded her of the perils of overconfidence. He had chosen the arena well, and he seemed to operate off reflex, making it difficult to read his thoughts and anticipate his movements. There were probably others like him. She must be prepared for the slim chance of a loss.

Jean-Paul was making himself an incredibly easy target, though he didn't seem to realize it. When not experiencing his visions of the Life-Giver's destruction he freely walked the mental plane. This was not something humans ought to be able to do—she suspected she had accidentally granted him the power. An insult to her own Ability that had to be avenged.

And the place where he walked was covered with green crystals, mocking the Tanmari. He would pay.

One silver thread unraveled, speeding through a place that was spiritual and not physical. It found him. Yes, he was dreaming. She knew his weakness now, knew how to conquer him... focusing, she carried herself to that place on the mental plane. A thought turned the emerald crystals into a burning, fiery orange, changed the aurora above to shades of red. The snow falling from the sky became embers. And she reassumed her human guise, that he might recognize her as the Angel of Death.

* * *

The shift in the crystals had been startling. A world he had come to think of as heaven had been so rapidly plunged into hell... Jean-Paul did not panic, though he looked around on full alert, waiting for an attack. There had to be an attack. It had to be the beast, the Nova, coming to haunt him even here. He drew in a long, steadying breath, allowing the fire to pass through him as he had finally learned. It touched the rage within him, and there was understanding.

A dark form _did_ appear on one of the crystals, but it was not the monster he had expected. This was a slender, almost fragile female form, gazing upon him with hate-filled eyes of jade.

Familiar eyes. _So that is how it is_.

"I know you," he stated simply. "We have done this before."

"Yes, human. This time you will not be as fortunate."

He remembered. Vaguely, but it was there. The last time she had defeated him with fire... he shook his head and looked up at the hellish aurora. "You're a bit late. I am not afraid any longer."

She seemed thrown off by his calm. But this was only a dream, and he had no desire to fight. Somehow he knew she _must_ have answers. "Yes. I sense this."

"Why are you here?"

"To prevent your madness from spreading." She jumped lightly from the crystal to the ground, and the infernal light tinted her silvery hair. "To end your Nova Project."

Perhaps this was good. _So there is a third seeking the answer to this enigma_. "Angel, what do you know about the Nova?"

"I know that the great star C'keir's destruction shall not be allowed. I shall protect the Life-Giver from you and your kind. Defend yourself if you dare, human!" Great wings of flame spread from her back and she swooped in on him.

Reflex took over, he had no time to wonder about what she had said. Dropping and rolling in these sharp crystals would have been suicidal even if she hadn't changed them, so he jumped up. And _up_. The gravity in this place was no different than what he was used to, but it was as if the force of his will had propelled him higher than physically possible until he came to rest on a crystal spire twenty feet above the ground.

_All is possible within the mental plane_.

"Angel." His voice was soft. He didn't really want to hurt her. "Don't do this. You aren't the only one looking for answers."

"Your answers will never be found!" she snarled, coming up after him.

He took a risk. Either he would kill himself and awaken from the dream, or he would be able to break his fall with his spirit, just as he had taken the jump. He vaulted off the crystal, coming down on Angel much as he had at Raven's Pyros only a few days before.

Two short swords appeared in her hands in the instant before they connected. His kick landed just as he had planned, a blow that should have caved in her chest, but she seemed merely to glow for a moment and then the blades scraped across him. He heard her triumphant cry and then he was falling...

The impact with the ground probably tore several new holes in him, to add to the twin slashes across his midsection. _Why am I still here?_ He was in pain, every inch of his body screamed with agony. Shouldn't he awaken?

"No, human. You will not wake ever again. This is more than a dream." She landed before him, a cruel smile on her face. "The deed is done now. You shall die the death of one foolish enough to battle a Tanmari on the mental plane."

_Mental plane?_

_All is possible within the mental plane._

He looked up at her and smiled faintly. "My mind has only one who even approaches an equal, Angel. You are not the one."

"Take that thought to your death."

"No... I am not ready to die yet. I have much left to do." He shifted. It was as if he were moving through lava, slow and excruciating, but he could move... he could get his legs beneath him... he could stand. He looked down and his eyes widened. There was no blood pouring from his wounds, but pale blue light.

Angel gasped and backed away. "The seal!" she hissed. "...So. You _do_ know of the seal, and she is protecting you... very well, human. This round is your triumph." Before he could ask what she was talking about, the flaming wings folded around her and she was gone, leaving him to collapse among the crystals.

Actually he had not truly needed to ask, because he knew. In that moment he could see the thread running from him. A thread of emerald green. He could see it to its source, and along the way it became a soft aqua.

Jean-Paul knew what it meant. _And I cannot afford it_. Perhaps Angel thought he'd won here, but he knew better... he closed his eyes and awaited consciousness.

* * *

Cossette wheeled into his room. She'd not been invited, but they had more or less gotten over those formalities. If the door was unlocked, they could freely travel through each others' quarters. It made it so much easier than having to explain to passersby what one was doing waiting outside the other's door.

He was standing, staring out the window. "Hello, Cossette."

There was danger in his tone. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes."

_Damn_. Was it Nova, had he learned something? She held the question for the moment, knowing he'd tell her what was going on when he pleased. But he did not, and finally she grew tired of his silence. "What is the problem?"

"You."

"We are not all geniuses of your caliber, Jean-Paul." She let sarcasm seep into her voice. "You will have to tell me what I've done wrong if you expect me to fix it."

"It is unforgivable."

Well, _that_ changed everything, didn't it? Cossette flailed about in her mind, but could not figure out what she might have done to anger him—let alone that was _unforgivable_. "Well, maybe you should still tell me what it is. Otherwise I might do it again, and that's hardly conducive to a good working relationship."

"There is no longer a working relationship."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He whirled on her. "It means get out of here! This is no longer an alliance of convenience. It is becoming something else. Something unacceptable."

"What are you—"

"OUT!"

She snarled. "You need me, you bastard. So you might as well stop acting like a spoiled brat and get over whatever your problem is."

"I do not need you." His voice was very soft. "Your weakness is only getting in my way."


	18. Round Five: Mind Games

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 17: Round Five

* * *

He watched the replay of the battle. A rematch. Cossette and Shirro. Most of the experts had assumed it would come down to which of them won the draw... so naturally, _neither_ of them had won the draw.

It might as well have been Cossette, though. The random choice had sent them to the Danger Room, where speed and mobility were needed to avoid the spikes shooting out from the walls. Neither of the fighters could claim much in the way of speed, but Cossette's Electra was at a definite advantage in mobility, and she had desperation on her side. She'd won.

Jean-Paul did not care.

A lie. If he didn't care, why was he watching their fight? Again.

_Because I'll probably be fighting her, or him again, before this tournament is over. That's why. That's all_.

He stabbed the console viciously, shutting the screen off, and closed his eyes. Anger swelled within him as he relived the night again, the night when he'd cast her aside. Been forced to cast her aside. Why was this happening to him? Why was it that he finally found an equal and he had to force her away? _Why?_

_Because you have spent so much time developing your mind you have no idea what to do with your heart. All of your love belongs to an unfeeling nature and an impersonal concept of nation. You considered that a fair trade._

Perhaps, but... "Will I always be alone?" he whispered to the darkened holoscreen and the empty room.

He felt it, calm and reassuring. The aurora within that pulsed to the beat of his heart. No, he was not alone. And there was no more time to dwell on foolishness, because he had a battle to win. He stood and left the room, quietly and determinedly ignoring that somewhere beside that aurora was a soft blue light and a thread of emerald green.

* * *

Seneca Crater was not where he would've chosen to fight against _anyone_, let alone a Gargoyle. His ice blasts would be a bit more efficient here on Luna, but really, under these circumstances he would've been equally happy to be somewhere with a roof.

Angel stood next to him and looked out at the crater. He was surprised that she would deign to be so near, and would have felt much better if she hadn't. "Angel." He looked down at her. "No tricks." _Whatever the hell you are_.

She looked up, eyes narrowed. "Back off, human. _This_ fight is inconsequential."

"Oh really?" He crossed his arms. "Then why are you here?"

"You will find out my cause soon enough."

They headed for their HARs. Jean-Paul was nervous, though he couldn't quite say why. Angel could hardly yank them off the... physical plane... into one of her ridiculous mind games, not here. Not with the world watching. He wondered how that would work while jacked in anyway.

Which was interesting to consider in theory, but he didn't _really_ want to see it in practice if he could help it.

Something occurred to him as he jacked in. Something worrying. Cossette had mentioned, before he'd discarded her, that in her first fight it had been as if Angel were reading her thoughts. And he realized, after their last encounter... he had no doubt she _could_. _Is that it? Is that how she's managing to win, even though she had no experience with HARs before now?_

Also interesting to consider in theory... and he would, perhaps, dwell on it longer later, but now the match light was glowing green and she was launching into the air, sweeping down upon the waiting Shadow. Though it was theoretically impossible to see illusions while jacked into a HAR, for a moment he could have sworn the Gargoyle's wings were made of flame.

He waited for her to be very close before rolling beneath the attack, tossing out shadows to either side as he did so. There was a shattering crash as the Gargoyle turned, immediately, and sank its talons into one of the projections, sending feedback damage tearing into him.

She had moved so quickly, so easily. As if she'd been expecting it. And while anyone might well have expected him to attempt that diversion while dodging, the fact that she'd managed to hit the shadow before he could dispel it meant she'd known exactly _when_ and _where_ it would be going.

As a test, he tried again, and she shifted to intercept one of the projections before he'd even fully released it.

_This is not good_.

* * *

Angel was confused. The human was very... different, than he had been when she'd attempted to attack him on the mental plane. She could feel something about him had been lost.

She remembered standing beside him on the shuttle and it had been missing then, too. The thread had seemed frayed, the seal weakened. It was impossible to destroy a seal of souls. But the human was denying it.

That denial would be his death—even humans could only lie to themselves for so long before falling into misery and despair. She was pleased, as she dove at him once again. The rejection of the seal could be the first step to unraveling the human Nova Project, and saving the Life-Giver! Yet she wondered why.

_No. I am not curious about the motivations of these human creatures. My mission is all that is important. For Tanmir, I will succeed._

The High Elder _had_ told her to learn the depths of their madness. But it could wait.

Jean-Paul had stopped trying to dodge her, which was irritating. It was so easy to adjust for when the humans thought to avoid her blows. He had started to block, which she could also read, but had much more difficulty getting around. It was only a matter of time. Even the terrain worked against him, while she flew freely over it. And he was not like the one called Raven, who seemed to fight without thought.

He was thinking. Oh yes, he was thinking. She could feel his frustration as he knew what she was doing... but there was nothing he could do to stop her. The fool could fight only with his mind. Perhaps it had been his advantage against other humans, but here it was to be his downfall.

She perched on the rim of the crater and looked down at the Shadow, struggling to regain its feet from her last throw. "You cannot win," she declared over internal comms. "You are only human." It was dangerous to mock him, to encourage his anger, but she could not resist. This one had defeated her on the mental plane. He could not be forgiven!

A shadow darted out at her, but she contemptuously kicked it away. He'd barely managed to scratch her yet in this fight. _Perhaps your mind has no equal, human, but it is open to me now and your body is not so strong_.

Yes. She was one step closer to her goal...

Gargoyle launched itself into the air for the killing blow.

* * *

Steffan lay awake in his bed, unable to sleep yet again. He was certain he'd averaged less than four hours a night for the last three weeks... he had watched each of the battles in the last round with the same vacant expression, barely registering what he saw. He felt horrible. Hollow. Empty.

Why was he so apathetic? He should be angry. No, he should be beyond angry. Indignant, and resentful, and furious, those were the words that should describe his mood as he watched. They were all out there fighting for a title that should have been his! No, no. If it were meant to be his he would still be fighting. Steffan couldn't believe he could be so easily robbed of his destiny.

_It's your own fault, you know._

He thrashed wildly, kicking his covers off and trying to get that voice out of his head. Not the voice again. Please, not that. "NO! I... there was... there was nothing I could do!"

_Oh, there was so much you could do. _

"NO!"

_You should not have mocked him, Steffan. You should have let it go. You should not have gone to such lengths to anger your enemies._

"It was just... trash talk... everyone did it..."

_And if everyone jumped from a bridge? You are better than these pitiful excuses, or are you the baby everyone assumed you were in the first place?_

"They were just words! Words never hurt anyone!"

_Haven't they? Words you can't back up are dangerous. Ah, but you learned this, so very well._

"SHUT UP!" He reached back down and pulled the covers over his head, as if they could block the tiny, nasty voice inside his mind.

_You could have recovered from that one loss, you know._

"He made a fool of me."

_Milano made a fool of Christian in the first round. Did Christian not recover from that defeat? But you, you were far too fragile to recover from your miserable failure. You were unworthy._

"Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered helplessly, curling his youthful, muscular frame into a tight ball. "Wasn't it enough that I lost?"

_If that were enough, I wouldn't be here._

"Go away... please."

_No. You do not truly want me to leave, do you Steffan? I am, after all, only a voice in your head. If you wanted me to leave I would be gone and banished from your mind._

"I WANT YOU TO LEAVE!"

_Good, good. Scream with the agony of defeat._

"Go, damn you! Why won't you go?"

_Because you have no spirit, boy, and you know it! If you had spirit a single loss wouldn't have so utterly destroyed your will to fight, no matter how bad that loss was. If you had spirit, you would scream for me to leave you with more emotion than empty pain. If you had spirit you would not lie in bed at night, dwelling on your frailty. If you had spirit I would not exist!_

Steffan buried his head under the pillow and screamed. Some time later the screams turned to sobs, and then faded to silence as he slipped into dreams. Terrible dreams. Dreams of HARs and demons which repeatedly tore into his flesh.

* * *

So the two most surprising competitors had clashed at last, and the battle had not been nearly as good as many had been expecting. Angel had dominated Jean-Paul in a way that even the unfavorable terrain could not fully account for. Many—mostly bitter gamblers counting their losses—wondered if he'd been ill again, or was Angel really that good? Not that it mattered now.

Cossette's defeat of Shirro had possibly been the most interesting of the fights, as Shirro had defeated her once before. A favorable arena draw couldn't explain it all away. It seemed clear Cossette was fighting with desperation, and that fact was giving her strength. But a few—those who'd followed her career since her time in the Arena so long ago—thought there had been something else about her. More than desperation. Perhaps it was anger.

Raven had knocked Christian from the tournament. Of course Christian hadn't gone down easily, and many had suspected he would make Raven completely destroy his Katana rather than ever giving in. Ultimately he had been forced out by the HAR for taking too much damage, wisely choosing not to override.

Milano had not fought, the uneven number of competitors granting him a bye. Sources near the security chief said he was angry at the draw, and had gone out and trashed the nearest practice field to compensate.

The fifth round was complete.


	19. Round Six: Gemini

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 18: Round Six

* * *

Misty found him in the HAR bay, working on the Shadow. She wished he wouldn't do that. It wasn't that she was worried he'd break something, either on the HAR or himself (though when he was in his worse moods, she wondered). More that it was rather annoying to find he'd altered or fixed something and not told her about it. 

She bit off the reflexive 'sir.' "Jean-Paul, what's wrong?" He only came here alone when something was wrong. For a time, he'd been heading out to Wright Park, but he seemed to have started avoiding that place lately. The avoidance appeared to have started when his alliance with Cossette had broken off.

That was a hopeless attempt at deceiving herself, and Misty scolded herself for it. She had spent two years with Jean-Paul. She knew quite well why he had broken off the alliance, and why he wasn't spending time at his old haunts anymore. The fact that she didn't want to dwell on it didn't excuse her for not even acknowledging the fact.

_For all your genius, sir, I wonder if you are the world's greatest fool._

It occurred to her as she thought about this that he had not answered, and she clambered onto the maintenance crane. He was usually at least considerate enough to acknowledge her presence. He was sprawled across the HAR's shoulder, doing something with one of the detached armor accents.

"Jean-Paul?" She didn't want to startle him. And while the crane made a great deal of noise, he could become very oblivious to the world around him if he was focusing as intently as he appeared to be at the moment. "Are you alright?"

Still no answer. She dismounted the crane and could finally see what he was doing—he'd hauled up several paint detail pens and was writing something on the inside of the plate. _Strange_. She looked over his shoulder. His writing was nearly illegible in the best of circumstances, but she'd eventually learned to interpret the jagged script. He'd repeated the same short declaration, over and over, until it nearly covered the inside of the armor section.

_I am a Gemini_.

* * *

"A Gemini, then, sir?" 

He'd glanced back at her from where his eyes had been locked on the calendar. "Come again?"

"Gemini. Your astrological sign."

"Oh." He shrugged. "Yes."

"Interesting."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"Probably, but I still find it interesting."

"I don't." He sounded disgusted.

She leaned back and looked at him with mild amusement. "I admit, that doesn't surprise me very much. Not a fan of the portrayal?"

He blinked.

"You're often more apt to believe in astrology if you agree with what your sign says about you."

"Oh sure. Egotistical, spoiled, immoral, and superficial. What's not to like?"

She'd decided not to mention astrology to him after that, but there were times she thought he lived up to his sign very well.

* * *

She sat just behind him and waited for him to notice her presence, but after about five minutes she decided she'd be there waiting all night. He'd run out of room on the inside of the plate and simply gone up to the top and started writing over the first round. It could not be comfortable, the way he was lying there... and the monotonous line made her remember stories of schools in times past, when teachers would force disobedient students to write such lines on a black stone board. 

_Is he punishing himself?_ It seemed a bit eccentric, but that was the way he thought, and she couldn't see any other reason for it... though, she'd long since given up trying to fathom all that went on in his mind.

"Egotistical, spoiled, immoral, and superficial. Is that all?"

He didn't look back at her but finally paused in his writing. "Yes."

"What brought this on? And why are you marking all over my machine?"

"To remember."

"Hmm." She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the Shadow's smooth armor. "I wasn't aware you often had problems with forgetting things."

"Not often."

"Then why write it down? Especially here."

"Because I have to remember. During the next fight."

It took a few moments for her to put it together, but soon enough she did. _He's fighting Cossette next. _Yes, now it made a great deal of sense. "I thought you'd agreed not to throw any matches even when you were on the same side? Funny for it to be an issue now that you've ditched her."

He twitched. "It's not an _issue!"_

"You are a very good liar, Jean-Paul, but eighty feet above the ground, scribbling all over your HAR's armor, _isn't_ a very good place to try it."

For the first time he looked back at her, an expression of resignation on his face. "I guess not."

"You'll do fine. Just relax. You can win this fight."

"I know I can." He returned his attention to his writing. "And I know I _will_."

She left him to his ritual. _People can act very strange when they're in denial. I ought to know, I suppose_. As she descended from the HAR, she contemplated his strange ways of operating. It was probably difficult to be such a genius, and be confronted with a situation that could not be solved solely with intellect.

Misty turned and looked when she reached the doorway. He was still there... something struck her powerfully in that moment. _Gemini. The Twins. Shadow creates duplicates of itself. Twins. He's writing "I am a Gemini" on the Shadow._ _The Shadow is a Gemini_. A slow smile appeared on her face, and she went to find a paint crew.

It was not unheard of for HAR pilots to name their machines.

* * *

"Cossette Akira, you are first alphabetically, thus you have the first call." 

She'd known that of course, she was first alphabetically in this whole stupid tournament. "One."

The coin was three. The referee turned to Jean-Paul. "It is your call."

"Two."

A new coin was drawn, and the man nodded. "The draw is yours. Where do you wish to fight?"

Cossette's heart sank. That was it then, they'd be going to Conamara... a place that was Jean-Paul's world. She knew nothing and nobody could defeat him in his element, surrounded by ice.

His eyes had closed for a moment. Now he sighed deeply and looked at her, shook his head. His voice was barely audible as he named an arena.

"More clearly, please?"

Hatred flickered in Jean-Paul's eyes as he looked at the man, and this time his voice was strong. "Power Plant."

Even the referee's jaw dropped. Obviously he still wasn't certain he'd heard right, but of course he could not question the decision. The time was set, and they were dismissed.

Cossette could not possibly have explained the emotions that had whirled through her at those two words. _Power Plant_. Her best arena, one where the Electra shone and all other HARs operated at a terrible disadvantage. It had to have been a mistake... no. He was mocking her, damn him.

_If he loses this, he is eliminated. A great risk for a simple bit of mockery._

Somehow they had ended up next to each other as they moved down the corridor, though he quite pointedly avoided looking in her direction. She glared up at him. "Bastard. You don't have to pity me. I'll defeat you anywhere."

He stopped. "No." His eyes were cold and somehow distant as he studied her. "The draw is not a part of the battle. It is... setting the stage, for the fairest fight possible."

Silence reigned over them. "A change in your attitude."

"A decision, based on the circumstances."

"You aren't an idiot. Why mock me with such a risk?"

"I am not mocking you." There was sincerity in his rough voice. "Good luck."

"...Luck?" He started walking again, leaving her to yell after him. "If I were lucky, I wouldn't be in this chair!"

No response. She was left alone.

* * *

Jean-Paul felt somewhere between guilty and disgusted as he awoke in the Shadow and ran a system check. Guilty, because he knew it _would_ seem that he was mocking her when he defeated her here. Disgusted because he'd won the draw and still opted to give her a chance... _But she still can't win_. He chanted the words like a mantra in his mind. _Egotistical. Spoiled. Immoral. Superficial. Yes. Nothing can cause me to fail here, not for some pathetic cripple's sake._ And immediately he felt sickened for even allowing that thought inside his head. 

It spoke volumes about how desperate he was, really... turning to some ridiculous superstition as a motivational tool. But wasn't his life ruled by ridiculous superstitions? _Gemini. Friday the 13th_. _No, this is stupid! _As the tournament progressed, it seemed to be more and more often that he wondered if he was going mad.

System check completed. Everything looked good. He stretched quickly but thoroughly, making sure none of the HAR's joints were going to lock up on him at the last second.

An odd gleam caught his eye as he underwent this routine. Something had been painted on the armor over the Shadow's right shin. Silver at first glance, but shimmering with iridescent glaze like the aurora bands over his arms. The symbol itself was a simple roman numeral two.

"Misty...?"

It seemed she'd been waiting for his question. "I took the liberty of naming your HAR for you, since you were so insistent on remembering certain things during this fight."

He looked down again and nodded slowly._ Yes... the symbol of Gemini_.

The Shadow raised its head and looked across the arena, where the Electra stared directly back. He had to win this fight. There were no other options.

The other HAR spoke over external comms. "Now I'll show you a real mind in action." Cossette's voice dripped with bitterness and hate.

"I am sure I will see one when I replay your defeat." His own tone was cold, steady, without malice or sorrow, filled with only calm assurance. It was time to end this charade, stop pretending he cared. Time to win, as he must.

The match light turned green.

* * *

They simply stood there looking at each other for a very long time after the match's official start. Cossette laughed humorlessly. She was quite possibly the only person in this tournament who was more defensive than her current opponent, and she certainly wasn't about to break down first. She waited. He was patient, but so was she. Eventually he would have to make the first move. 

Otherwise people were going to get very bored. Too bad. Cossette was here to win a fight, not to entertain people.

No... she didn't fight to entertain, anymore.

Across from her, the Shadow straightened from its defensive stance and nodded. "I thought not." The telltale shimmer appeared around his left wrist and she tensed, ready to leap away—it was rather difficult to _block_ the mass of ice, but she could at least get out of its way with little effort.

A shadow sprang forth and the condensation faded. _Psychological warfare?_ That was new. But it would take a lot more than that to breach her defenses... she blocked easily. Though she knew she could hit the projection and it would harm him, there was always the risk of an error in timing, the blow getting through. That she could not allow.

He tried several more shadows, each of which she blocked successfully, but she was becoming irritated. The shadows faded away when their attacks failed, she could not counterattack or toss them into the electrified walls. And he seemed perfectly content to merely stand there and wait for a lucky hit.

_A lucky hit he'll never get. _

The ice blasts had not come, which she didn't understand. It would be the simplest thing in the world for him to force her to dodge the ice, then toss out a shadow to take her in midair... or at least, it should seem simple to him. She wouldn't allow it of course, but why hadn't he _tried?_

"Disappointing." This came over her internal comms, his voice soft and without emotion. "I had hoped you would at least put up a fight, but you are too spineless even for that..."

The Electra's head came up slowly, gazing at the Shadow as it stood motionless on the other side of the Power Plant. Cossette could not, for the life of her, decide how to react... he wanted her angry. That was obvious, blatantly obvious. Their alliance had been short and antagonistic, and he was merely continuing the same attitude he had displayed so often before.

So why did it feel so wrong?

"You think I am enough of a fool to fall for your tricks? You will not provoke me."

"I do not think you are a fool. A useless cripple with no business on the battlefield, yes, but not a fool."

_I'll tear that bastard in—no, don't fall for it!_ She spread her arms wide, letting lightning arc between them. "Do you want me angry, Jean-Paul?"

"I want you to fight."

What was he playing at? Bringing her here, to her best arena, then trying to drive her into a rage that would only make her fight more strongly? "Do you want to win?"

"I will win."

There it was. The answer, the solution to this riddle. "That isn't what I asked."

Her enemy became silent. The left arm snapped up, and ice shot forth, the maneuver coming faster than Cossette had ever seen before. She jumped—not soon enough—the blast hit the Electra in the legs, its momentum dragging her backwards. He was running almost immediately after launching the attack, meaning to follow up, to take advantage of her shock when she hit the wall.

Except it _wouldn't_ stun her and he had to know that.

"Ratchet, what the hell is he thinking?"

"Y'know, she-demon, if I could read minds, I'd be so rich I wouldn' be runnin' aroun' like a HAR tech." Then a sharp gasp. "No way."

"What?" The Electra struck the wall, with about the same lack of result she had expected, the ice melting off rapidly. "What's wrong?"

"MOVE!"

She made a valiant attempt to do as he said, but she was just a step too slow. The Shadow crashed into her with all the force of its several hundred tons and the Electra's somewhat lighter frame shrieked under the stress. But it was holding. It would hold. She was virtually pristine at this point, one charge could not stop her. What was Ratchet so worried about?

And why the hell was that Shadow still there, trapping her against the arena wall that was not causing her any damage?

"Shake him!"

"Ratchet, would you relax?" She was certainly _trying_ to shake him, but he'd managed to pin the Electra's arms behind her, which made it a bit more difficult. Both legs came up for a kick that would crush the Shadow's chest plate. At the same time, the shimmer of condensation appeared around the other HAR's arm again.

"He's gonna—"

She never did hear the rest of Ratchet's warning.

It would take her some time to figure out exactly what had happened. Later she would register that a burst of ice had joined her HAR with the Power Plant wall, that the heat of the energy had melted it almost immediately. She would remember sensors screaming a warning of liquid penetrating cracks and seams in the Electra's armor. She would learn that prior to their battle Jean-Paul had replaced the liquid nitrogen in the Shadow's core with ordinary water, ideal for seeping into her machine and conducting the electricity from the walls straight into the HAR's heart. Her special layer of crystalline armor, which allowed Electra to withstand the worst storms of Jupiter or greatest shocks from enemies in the arena, was rendered quite useless by the maneuver.

All she knew at the moment, however, was that he delivered the ice blast and jumped back, and a few short instants later her body was flooded with unbearable pain.

* * *

Jean-Paul felt guilty again. Cossette had actually screamed, and he had known when he'd planned that tactic how painful it would have to be. Of course, after his absurd notion that he should fight her in her domain... he'd needed _something_ to even the odds. _And whose fault is it she just stood there begging for my best shot? Not mine._

No time for remorse. He endured the painful sensation of being ripped apart, watching twin shadows descend on the stricken Electra. One landed a powerful kick, caving in armor over the right shoulder, but she recovered faster than he'd anticipated. The second shadow was knocked out of the air by a sphere of lightning.

Feedback cut his legs out from under him, and he growled in frustration. He rather liked the Shadow, but its bad points were _really bad_.

By the time he recovered Cossette was also on her feet again. Why was he surprised? Certainly he hadn't expected her to surrender. He could, no doubt, be cruel and merciless until his mind ceased to supply spiteful words and deeds, and it would only encourage her to fight harder. But it didn't matter how hard she fought. He would win this day.

Whether he _wanted_ to was still up for debate, but he had no choice.

_Of course I want to! I'm egotistical, spoiled, immoral... oh, why the hell am I still keeping up with that. I'm going to win in spite of myself._

She struck. What had been a standoff only a minute ago became a rapid flurry of blows as the HARs leapt from corner to corner of the arena, each blocking and landing blow after blow. If they'd bored the spectators to death earlier, the performance was surely enough to resurrect the whole crowd. _This_ was what they'd come for, the scrap cascading to the floor, the shattering crash of metal on metal. The subtleties of the original face-off were not entertaining—and things that were not entertaining had no place in the arena.

He was suddenly angry. All that they were going through... all the pain and hatred and denial... it was all merely a game to people who could never understand. _Aren't we supposed to be the best of WAR? Why did any of us ever agree to these fights? We are more than this. How dare they treat us as animals for their amusement..._

Fury made him stronger, faster, and Cossette was starting to slip. He suspected that her shock treatment in the beginning had done damage to the HAR's circuits, damage which she could only fight through for so long. That had been the idea, hadn't it? Still they traded strikes until... she missed one step in their dance of destruction, and then the fatal opening was there. He took it.

He knew, as Gemini's claws tore through into the Electra's chest, that he hadn't wanted to take it.

_I'm sorry_.

* * *

The field was becoming much narrower now. With Cossette's elimination, half the original competitors were gone. 

Milano was proven, perhaps, to be justified in his anger over his fifth-round bye. The Shredder had looked a bit rusty in facing off against Raven, and Raven was not the person you wanted to be rusty against. Even winning the draw hadn't saved him from the Pyros' powerful flames.

Shirro had defeated Angel. Fortune in the draw had been on his side, and he had opted to face her in the Stadium—though the Danger Room had been the site of her first loss, he was probably feeling none too charitable towards that particular arena himself. The Gargoyle's impeded flight was only part of the equation. Angel's often-flawless ability to read her opponent's moves seemed to have fled her in their battle, and the Flail had landed many easy hits.

Nobody quite knew what to make of the fight between Jean-Paul and Cossette, and most weren't bothering to try. Certainly it had been... unique. Oddly, the arena draw raised far more questions than the match itself. It was generally accepted that Jean-Paul had wanted a decisive victory to silence the final doubters of his skill.

There was something else significant about this round, something which made Neo Vegas run wild with whispers and speculation. They were now on the final stretch: every competitor left in the tournament had two losses to their record. Nobody could afford any mistakes anymore.

And the sixth round thus came to a close.


	20. Deeper Chaos

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 19: Deeper Chaos

* * *

Being eliminated did not prevent the competitors from using the Cheyenne Mountain complex's training grounds. Cossette had been taking advantage of that fact. Often.

Electra stormed through a short course, leaving scrap and scorched earth in her wake. Ratchet had long since given up trying to tell her to calm down. She'd more or less recovered in person, but... it was as if jacking into her HAR brought her back to the instant directly after that fight.

He cringed. He did _not_ want to remember that.

Glancing up at a noise from the doorway, he saw an older man in standard-issue WAR tech gear entering the control room. Polite nods were exchanged and he went to a separate console. Ratchet recognized this one—Shirro's tech. Like the great majority of techs, he'd opted to take on a nickname related to his craft, and was known to the world as Wingnut.

"She-demon, there's a Flail on the course."

A grunt. "Better tell it to stay out of my way."

Ratchet wasn't using a headset, allowing the other tech to hear their conversation, and he looked up. "Shirro's here looking for her."

"No kiddin'?"

"Yeah."

"Oh great." He turned back to the comms. "Boss, slow down, cuz the Flail wants t' talk to ya." He looked back at Wingnut. "And yer boss knows, I hope, that there ain't nothin' good that can come outta that?"

"I figure, it's his HAR and he pays by the hour, so he's entitled to get as banged up as he pleases."

Ratchet chuckled. "Ya gotta point there. Why's he lookin' fer the she-demon? Ever'one else with a brain in their heads is avoidin' her lately."

"No idea."

* * *

Cossette raged inside herself and channeled that rage outward. She wondered... if only she could get one more chance, with this fury that had built inside her. Would she win? Could anyone or anything stop her with such wrath on her side?

_Pointless speculation_. Electra's coils charged, unleashing a volley of ball lightning onto a hapless target nearby. The target turned to cinders, and what was left of the lightning spheres blasted a small hole in the heavily-reinforced wall surrounding the course.

"Nice."

She jumped. Her sensors had not warned of the other HAR's presence, but there it was, the Flail standing just behind her and examining her handiwork. "What do you want?"

"To talk to you."

"Well this is a stupid place to do it." Lightning crackled around her arms as she turned to face the insolent intruder. Never mind that Shirro was still fighting while she wallowed in the disgrace of defeat. Right now this course was _her_ domain.

The ungainly machine crossed its arms, an effect which might have worked for the more humanoid HARs but really, looked very strange for a Flail. "You're rather difficult to track down elsewhere, and besides, I don't have much free time. I'm still expected to keep up with my day job."

"So are the rest of us."

"Well, yes, but nobody knows when the rest of you are slipping." He snorted. "Do you have any idea how _embarrassing_ it is to go out there and give a press statement about how in today's tournament battle, Shirro got his ass handed to him?"

"Not that you've had to do that very often." _Of course. He's just out here to rub it in, the bastard_. But that didn't seem Shirro's style. He was too interested in looking at the lighter side of life, she doubted 'senseless spite' was even in his vocabulary. Besides, wasn't he known for his tact almost as much as his strength?

That _was_, after all, how he'd ended up as PR director.

"Twice. Enough to make me nervous." The Flail caught one of its chains and tossed it in one massive hand. "One of those losses was from you, as I recall, just as one of your losses was from me. It seems we're quite even, you don't need to be so hostile."

"Even, except you're still fighting." Lightning began arcing as she increased the charge from the coils.

"For the moment."

"Why are you out here bothering me?"

"Because I'm concerned."

Cossette lowered the power to the coils, though his words only served to make her more suspicious. "Is that so?"

"That's so."

Silence lingered over the field for a long time. She didn't really know what to say, it was somehow very difficult to get angry at Shirro, yet surely she was angry. Jealous, bitter, angry, the works...

"You know what will happen when this is over, Cossette?"

"What?"

"Nine of us will go back to our old jobs. One of us will go be a desk-jockey on some gray rock on the fringes of inhabited space. The world will continue to turn. Those who lost will still be just as alive as whoever won. They can even be happy, if they refuse to dwell on their loss."

_Refuse to dwell on it? He makes it sound so easy!_ "Happy in the knowledge of their weakness. You are a strange man, Shirro."

"Perhaps." The Flail turned from her. "Just remember, Cossette, that nobody else has claimed you are weak for losing. You are the one who keeps up that idea. A great many of us are aware that your injury was only to your body... _you_ are the one who has moved it to your mind."

* * *

The dreams had returned full force since her defeat.

The monster which descended from the exploding sun was clearer now, though still shrouded by flame and darkness. It was still laughing. But now it laughed at her, and her weakness.

She no longer stood victorious on Ganymede, of course. The WAR complex burned around her and she could not escape it. She was trapped in this chair, waiting her end. Yet the monster did not kill her. It seemed content to bask in its power, secure in the knowledge that it _could_ destroy her in an instant...

Behind it, the green-eyed man still stood. But tonight something was different.

Tonight he attacked.

Cossette's jaw dropped as he moved forward in a cyclone of ice and snow, one elemental force to confront another. For a moment he was looking at her. Something in his eyes pleaded with her to help.

There was nothing she could do but watch... "Wait!" If he stopped, if he came to her, maybe they could do something, but no. He pressed the attack alone.

The dark creature turned on him and raised a hand. Flames shot out with all the force of a solar flare, and she had to close her eyes to prevent being permanently blinded by the terrible light. When she opened them again... he was gone.

Lightning crackled around her. _I will stop it_. The massive bolt erupted from somewhere within, a jagged light which connected her with the Nova creature. It hurt to sustain this electricity, but she gritted her teeth and fought the pain. Because she had to. Because she was not weak.

It turned on her and the eyes glowed red, then one hand came up and flames raced forth.

* * *

Angel's eyes opened. _I do not understand_.

So the humans achieved the cataclysm. What was the beast which came after? Did some dark demon lurk within the heart of the great star, and its release was what the humans sought to accomplish? There were stories told by the Elders of wicked creatures in days long past, banished by the Tanmari. She knew humans had similar tales in their own mythology.

_Perhaps they know of some creature which was trapped within the Life-Giver in their distant past. So they seek to release it, and control its power_.

Yet the beast had destroyed both of them. Her eyes widened as she realized what surely must be the case. They had combined their forces because together, they could control the beast. No longer did they work together. Jean-Paul denied the seal. And apart, they could not subjugate the evil they thought to unleash!

_Can it be that simple?_

Of late, she had been wavering in this mission. It just made no _sense_. Even now, the only ultimate answer she could find was that the humans were hopelessly mad. She was beginning to entertain the thought that perhaps, _she_ was the one that was wrong...

_Nova is a project by the human company, WAR. Not merely these two humans. The threat runs far deeper. Perhaps I have even misjudged their place in the cataclysm. Yet the project is real. _The one called Cossette's Ability was not strong, perhaps her vision of the result was in error. Yet the intent of the plan was clear. It was not a matter of only one human's dream—she had heard other humans speaking of a Nova Project. And what else could it mean?

She wanted so badly to reach out to the High Elder, but feared she'd bothered him quite enough on this matter. Still, his guidance could only assist her in both of her missions... she sorely needed guidance now.

Angel closed her eyes. _All is not well._

_We sense your frustration, young one. Have you been discovered?_

_No. One human knows I am not what I seem, but he is too far adrift in the chaos of his own mind to be concerned with me. He has begun to deny the seal, and the decay from that denial is already setting in. I have nothing to fear from him. The other human I monitor, the one with the Ability, does not yet suspect my observation._

_And in their combats?_

_I still fight, but I have seen two defeats. Of those remaining within the tournament, none can afford to lose again, and many of them seem to fight with reflex rather than thought. I am concerned._

_We have faith in you, young one. You would not have been granted this mission if we did not believe in your strength._

The reassuring thoughts of the High Elder flowed through her, calming her somewhat. _I wonder if strength is enough._

_What troubles you?_

_The human dreams of the Nova Project continue. It seems clear the cataclysm is approaching, yet, their reaction to their visions is not within expected parameters. I fear I have misinterpreted._

There was a long pause. _We need you to focus. Does the cataclysm seem imminent?_

_I cannot tell. _The humans did not react as if the matter was urgent._ ...I do not think so._

_Then do not concern yourself with it now. Win the rest of your battles. When you become their leader, you will be able to seek these answers much more easily. What is most important now is that you succeed in your original task, and keep the humans from our moon. _

_I understand._

But really, Angel didn't think she understood much at all anymore.


	21. Round Seven: Shortfall

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 20: Round Seven

* * *

Milano was seated at his desk, going over the security reports. He'd delegated a great deal of authority to the rest of the department while the tournament went on, but still insisted on keeping track of the major reports himself. It was, after all, _his_ job.

But his thoughts kept drifting. The arena draw for the next round had been that afternoon, and he and his opponent had ended up with a random arena. First thing tomorrow, he and Jean-Paul would be heading for the Danger Room.

Only two battles this round—Angel had received a bye in the opponent draw earlier. Things were much more tense now, tense and almost desperate. He'd watched the feeds from the training grounds. Even Raven seemed to be practicing with some anxiety.

And who could blame him? The higher one happened to be favored, the more pressure there was to advance. Milano was feeling it himself. He could only imagine what it must be like to be Kreissack's favored competitor.

_Hmph. Empathy for Raven. My mind is wandering quite shamefully._

There was nothing out of the ordinary in any of the reports. He'd expected as much, he decided as he leaned back in the large chair and curled his ponytail around his fingers, as he was apt to do while he was thinking. Even the usual dissidents had been caught up in the tournament hype. They could protest the winner when it was all over.

The independent nation of Katsushai, always a political thorn in WAR's side, had announced they were holding their own tournament. The stakes weren't as high, of course... but it was gaining attention both within the country and abroad, especially in the other independent nations which looked at WAR's event with disgust. Milano was just as happy with this. Let them worry about their own tournament security rather than testing WAR's.

Kreissack hadn't been so pleased, of course. But it wasn't exactly his job to think such things out logically.

_When I have taken this company back, I will be different. WAR will be benevolent again, and perhaps even the independents will see how much better their lives could be if they join us._ Yes. It was a good dream, a good future. He didn't believe the WAR propaganda, that the independent nations were uncivilized ingrates. Surely they would join in a new golden age.

Without warning, the door flew open. Milano's hand went to his sidearm immediately. It took a lot of nerve and a lot more incentive to just barge in on WAR's security chief in his own office. Granted, he wasn't known for shooting people until he was convinced he needed to, but...

Jean-Paul stood in the doorway, vulpine features twisted in fury. Milano relaxed and pulled his hand away from the weapon. "Hello, friend..." He fought to keep his voice even, though confusion and displeasure were both struggling to enter his tone.

The young man threw something at his desk. Several small, dark objects. Milano picked one up and examined it—a lead shielding disc. Properly installed within a HAR's neural receptor, about a dozen of the discs could block any neural signals from reaching the machine, making them useful for HARs under serious repair or in storage.

Milano counted six on his desk. Not enough to fully disable the receptor, but enough to cause a great deal of trouble controlling it.

Jean-Paul's voice was deathly cold. "Goodbye. Friend." He whirled and stormed out just as abruptly as he'd come.

It took him a long time to reclaim his mind from its twisted corridors of shock and bewilderment. The only explanation for such anger was that he'd found the discs installed on his HAR, and assumed that Milano must be behind it. Which, he had to admit, wasn't that poor an assumption. After all, Milano _was_ his next opponent. And as he had access to the security feeds in the HAR bays, it seemed logical that nobody would attempt to sabotage a machine without the security chief's blessing.

Milano quietly brought up those feeds now, compelling himself to remain cool and collected as he did so. It was no sense letting himself become angry until he knew exactly what was going on.

It didn't take him too long to find what he was looking for, and it was precisely what he'd been afraid of.

* * *

The bay where Milano's Shredder was held sank into a horrible silence as he entered. Usually the techs didn't mind their boss dropping by, as he was charming and easygoing and could make even the lowliest grease monkey feel as important as the leader of WAR. But something was very wrong now. Very, very wrong.

He was certain they could all see it. Not just from their silence, but from the way they all backed off as though his glare were radioactive. He was struggling to contain himself until he found the target of his fury...

Socket moved forward hesitantly. She was his head tech, somewhat braver and more confident than the others. "What's wrong, sir?" Even her voice was rather meek, and she did not call him Man of Steele as she usually preferred. "It's rather late for you to be out, isn't it?"

"Yes." His words seared the air. "It is."

"Can we help you with something?"

"Where's Dawson."

He was relieved when she looked completely baffled by his question, though it did very little to cool the lava flowing through his veins. He liked his chief tech, and if she'd been in on this... but no, she was a terrible actress. She turned now and looked up, her voice a bit stronger. "Yo Dawg! Get down here, the boss wants a word!"

He descended from his position at the Shredder's shoulder quickly, leaping from support struts rather than bothering with the maintenance crane. He was a cocky little prick, he really was. Milano should've known he was trouble from the beginning...

_No, that train of thought's not going to help me any._

"You look steamed, boss. How can the Dawg help ya?"

"Don't try to be cute, Dawson. You're under arrest."

"...Huh?"

"You heard me!" Milano's composure snapped. "I don't know why the _hell_ you thought it was a good idea to go around sabotaging other people's HARs, but did you honestly think you could get away with it when YOUR BOSS IS IN CHARGE OF SECURITY FOR THIS WHOLE TOURNAMENT!"

Dawson staggered for a moment, but recovered quickly. Admirably quickly, Milano would've thought, if he weren't such a fraudulent ass. "Oh c'mon boss! Nobody had to know."

"Except he found the discs you planted, idiot." Milano's fists were clenched so hard his nails were beginning to draw blood from his palm. "And you'd better thank your lucky stars he did, because it means you're only getting tossed into prison. If I'd ended up winning this fight because of dirty tricks from a rogue tech, I would've killed you. Literally." His eyes were empty pools of deep brown, no mercy or even humanity within them. "And don't think that's an idle threat. You'd be amazed what I can get away with _when I choose to_."

That took the wind out of Dawson's sails.

It was too late for the arrest to mean anything to Jean-Paul's fury. Milano knew that all too well. If trying to redeem himself to his opponent were his only goal, he probably wouldn't have even bothered. But leading the crooked tech away in handcuffs still made _him_ feel much better.

_I'm going to win this thing... but fairly. I am not corrupt. I will not be like Kreissack.

* * *

_

_Now you're trapped in a corner. Way to go!_

Jean-Paul had actually gone into the corner on purpose. Tradeoffs—he couldn't dodge much, but Milano could hardly use his speed to land attacks on his flanks. And there weren't any spikes which could reach his present location. That was always a plus.

Of course, the Shredder was being very inconsiderate indeed when it came to standing still and letting the Shadow hit it. And now that he was _in_ the corner, getting _out_ was more of a problem. It was a bit infuriating.

And really, he should be furious. Hadn't that ponytailed twit tried to sabotage him for this fight? Of course, he had taken no responsibility. He had 'arrested' the tech who was to 'blame' for the deed, and that was that. Jean-Paul was disgusted. He'd thought Milano was above cheap tricks, and casting blame off onto expendable underlings. Apparently, he'd been wrong.

Being wrong was one of those feelings Jean-Paul liked to avoid.

The Shredder was coming at him again, blade hands rapidly spinning. Jean-Paul cast a shadow out to interrupt its run and for once landed a good hit, knocking the Shredder from the air. His enemy was slow to rise—the price Milano paid for his speed was a none too impressive constitution.

He would've liked to take advantage of that and get out of the bloody corner, but a spike dislodged from the wall and stabbed just in front of him. _Sigh_.

The Shredder's hands shot towards him as it was still in the process of standing and he barely managed to block them. 'Blocking' that particular technique was a questionable concept in itself—it was still getting hit with high-speed monofilament blades, just in a manner slightly less detrimental to the HAR's health. _Or not_. Trying to deflect Milano's blows had already shredded Gemini's left wrist plate, rendering his nitrogen core useless as the gathered liquid simply leaked out of its holding chamber.

The Shredder paused for a moment, standing still in the arena between two spike paths. "You've put up a good fight," Milano stated. "But it has to end now." He flipped forward.

Too fast. Jean-Paul took the hit long before he could get in position to block, though his movement at least forced the other HAR to hit him at an angle rather than squarely over the chest as he'd intended. Warning alarms shrieked as he cried out and sank into the corner. The Shadow's chest plate had been breached.

"Right. You didn't want a good fight, did you?" he snarled. His anger at Milano seemed to fill the fissures in his armor, and he stood without feeling any pain. "If you want it to end, then you'll have to end it!" Two shadows sprang forth.

One of the projections landed a grazing blow to Milano's arm, sending an armor plate to the floor, but the damage was rather insignificant. The other, however, landed its fist directly in the Shredder's face and send it tumbling back across the arena.

Finally, he could get out of this damned corner!

"Careful," Misty warned. "Your reactor is exposed. If he hits it..." She didn't need to elaborate.

He didn't answer her and leapt forward, landing on one of the spikes as it retreated and focusing. _No problem. In about half a minute that won't be an issue_. Two more shadows split off from him, and in his rush of adrenaline he barely even noticed the pain of the separation. One dove claws-first and shattered armor over the Shredder's midsection.

Milano wouldn't be able to take the blow from the other shadow. He was finished.

The projection missed.

"Not that easy!" Milano had barely managed to roll aside, but he had, and he was rising. Jean-Paul jumped from his perch. One more strike. That was all it would take...

The Shredder's hands detached. He tried to shift, but maneuverability in the air was not high on his list of talents. One deflected off of Gemini's shoulder. The other found the breach over his heart.

HAR computers were intelligent, as AI went. The machine warned with a horrid, piercing alarm which overrode all others that he was going to be forced to jack out. The neural receptor was not in imminent danger of destruction, but the Shadow had taken critical damage. He had two seconds. Did he want to override?

Yes. Gods, yes, he _wanted_ to override. But what good would it do? Without the reactor and nitrogen core, his HAR was nothing more than a target. He let the darkness embrace him. Just as well. It meant he didn't have to see Milano, standing victorious.

* * *

Arena junkies had not been disappointed by this round. Jean-Paul and Milano had fought long and hard, and the victor's HAR had only just been able to walk from the arena under its own power. Quite a few were disappointed that the surprising genius had been eliminated, but many more were not—mostly those who were betting on Milano to win it all. At this stage that was a significant number.

Raven had fallen to Shirro. Not entirely unexpected, this had still caused some mild rioting in Neo Vegas due to Raven's status as a heavy favorite. Of course, Shirro had also been a heavy favorite, and his loss would have simply meant different people were doing the rioting. Iron Fist fighters on security detail there were demanding extra hazard pay.

Angel was the last upset competitor left, and she'd had a bye for the round as numbers were uneven once again.

It was announced that Shirro would have the eighth-round bye, as Milano and Angel had each sat out a round already in the tournament. There could be only two fights left, and the anticipation hung heavy in the air.

The seventh round was over.


	22. Round Eight: Observers

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 21: Round Eight

* * *

Jean-Paul leaned back and stared up into the sky at the aurora. The crystals were cool against his back, yet he could feel them overflowing with energy. Since the night Angel had attacked him, this strange dream had once more become a paradise... perhaps the only place he could truly feel at peace amidst the chaos of the tournament.

Being eliminated had only made things worse. It had gotten easier to duck reporters, which was never a bad thing, but the rest of the world had gone _insane_. The competitors who'd lost weren't actually allowed to fade into obscurity, naturally. They were stuck at Cheyenne Mountain just like the ones still fighting.

It was, to put it lightly, not a pleasant environment.

And what of those who were left? Shirro was nothing but a creature of WAR, the spin master himself. Hell, he could take over the whole company and nothing would change. The only result of his winning would be Kreissack having to find someone else to give his biased press reports. Unless Shirro meant to give press conferences on Ganymede... an idea which brought a smile to his face, if only for a moment. If that pack of rabid dogs calling themselves the media had to head out to Jupiter's orbit for every story, maybe they'd give up and go find a useful profession.

Milano... it was hard to know what to make of him. Often, before his betrayal, he'd spoken to Jean-Paul about the need for change. Certainly the Ganymede position offered enough influence to bring about change. _That's why I wanted it, isn't it?_ But who knew how sincere Milano's intentions were.

Then there was the dangerous assumption the 'change' he wanted was beneficial to anyone but himself. No, his winning was unlikely to be of use.

But that left Angel, easily the worst of them all. She wasn't even human... of this he was certain. That or she had a crop of mental disorders to make Michael Jackson Jr. look sane. After all, he was pretty certain he'd never been called 'human' by anyone with a shred of sanity, least of all as an insult.

Though perhaps it was one.

Regardless of what she was, or wasn't, Angel's motivations were completely unknown to him. That didn't make him feel particularly comfortable about her taking over Ganymede and the influence it presented.

_So what conclusion have I come to? That no matter who wins, life is going to be either bad or worse. Excellent._

His thoughts shifted to Cossette. _Oh for the love of_... why was he thinking about her again? Even if they were still allied there was nothing they could do about the Nova anymore. He couldn't even hope to hack it—Iron Fist had finally given up searching for him, and taken all of the false databases off of the network. The false ones, and the real one, apparently. And Jean-Paul's system of personal contacts was much shorter than Cossette's, which hadn't turned up anything but rumors.

Jean-Paul closed his eyes, blocking out the night sky. _How can you have lost so badly? You don't deserve to see the aurora... the sign of all that you've failed_.

Instead he saw her in his mind, glaring at him with hatred. Yes, he'd thrown that away too... something he had feared worse than flame. An equal, but so much more than an equal. A person he could care about, if he'd let himself. But caring was humanity, and humanity was weakness, and he'd pushed her away.

_But I _am_ human. ...Aren't I?_ He reached up and rested his fingertips on his chest. There was a heart beating within... and... his eyes opened as he felt something else. His hand was resting on a slender emerald thread.

_How?_ He'd discarded her.

The aurora shone above in shades of blue and silver and aquamarine. Her colors.

_No._

"No—I can't allow this... I can't... even if I could... she hates me! SHE HATES ME, DAMN YOU!" He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "She has to hate me. I made her hate me..." Of course she must hate him. He'd dealt her a humiliating defeat, after all, and spoken with all the cruelty he could muster. Surely he'd made her hate him.

_Because I'm too afraid of what could happen if not..._

He placed a hand on a nearby crystal and felt its cold energy replenishing him. Slowly, the aurora shifted its colors again, and the thread faded from view. He smiled weakly. Yes. Perhaps he was in denial, but it was only one more lie. He always had space in his soul for one more lie.

He still could not afford to dwell on such things. Failure in the tournament had made his mission so much harder, but he would succeed, he _must_. WAR would fall.

* * *

Angel had been learning. Perhaps not as quickly as she would've liked, but she _had_ been learning. Watching the humans perform their strange, physical rituals of combat had enhanced her own training in such methods.

The one called Shirro had defeated her in her last fight, because of a favorable arena draw. But she could not use the close confines of the Stadium as an excuse, because it had been more than that. Because he fought without thought, as if it were simply second nature to him, giving her no warning of his actions. She'd been no match for him in raw combat ability and she had failed, miserably.

Embarrassing. But with her seventh-round bye she'd had two weeks to fix the problem—after the High Elder had recommended her to ignore the distraction of the cataclysm, the Nova Project, she thought she'd shown good form in following that advice. She'd gone back and watched the replays of every battle yet held in the tournament, carefully studying the techniques of the human warriors.

Before, she could read their thoughts. Now she still possessed that weapon, but there was more. She could _fight!_

Her Gargoyle swerved to the side, avoiding one of the spinning blades which functioned as her enemy's hands. _So he's become more intelligent. _In their last fight Milano had seemed quite content to stand around on the sands below, dodging and hoping she'd come down to fight on his terms.

She'd been lucky enough to win the arena draw, and they now fought in the Desert. Again. He'd changed his strategy quite a bit since their last meeting—perhaps he, too, had scrutinized past battles for hours in preparation for this match. But though it was very annoying that he'd finally decided he _should_ jump and throw his hands about, it did give her a new advantage.

Before, he had fought quite instinctively, and it was his tactical foolishness working against him to ensure her victory. Now he'd improved his tactics... but he had to think about it.

* * *

Cossette wasn't watching the fight. Why did she want to watch them? It didn't matter to her who won now. They were nothing but fools, selfish fools who would take the position merely to increase their own power. They had nothing to prove, only egos to sate. She didn't even want to think about the fight.

She _was_ thinking, though, and thinking about someone who was still in the tournament no less. Shirro's words had haunted her for over a week.

_A great many of us are aware that your injury was only to your body... _you_ are the one who has moved it to your mind._

He was lying, of course. He had to be lying! So many people had treated her as an inferior since her injury. What had she done to deserve that? The sneers, the smug looks and snide comments, those weren't a result of her moving the injury to her mind. Hell, those were a rather good part of _why_ she had become so bitter...

She sank into silent contemplation. Ratchet still treated her as a peer, of course, and it seemed that for him it ought to be harder than most. He was the one who had to help her from the accursed chair when it was time to jack into her Electra and become truly alive, and then assist her in returning to that chair when reality again fell upon her. Of all people, he perhaps would have the right to think of her as slightly less. Yet he went to lengths not to look down on her which few others ever had.

Apparently, Shirro also did not see her as inferior. Which was interesting, as she'd not thought about it. But as she looked back he never _had_ treated her differently because of her injury... and he had come out to speak to her, to express concern, when most were avoiding her for fear of their lives.

Then there was Jean-Paul.

_Where the hell did that come from? _He'd only been more blatantly vicious about her disability than anyone else had been for a very long time.

_Only in the fight._

That was true. She tried to remember prior to their battle, prior to the night he'd thrown her aside like some piece of unwanted trash. It was difficult to forget what he had said since then, but... he had not treated her poorly. Yes, he'd insulted her, but hadn't she done the same to him? And he had also made some attempt to at least meet her on equal footing...

_Do you want to win?_

_I will win._

It hadn't been what she'd asked at all. And how hard would it be to say yes, he'd wanted to win? After all, he'd already called her a useless cripple, it wasn't as if he could expect to anger her much more than that. His actions, during the alliance and after, just made no sense.

Had he been humoring her while their partnership was worthwhile to him, or was he lying now, exercising false contempt? Did it matter? They had both lost their chance. Someone else would win the tournament, using it for their own purposes, their own gain. The Nova Project would be completed and revealed in time, and they could dwell on what fools they'd been to cease their alliance.

Or, perhaps, what fools they'd been to be concerned over it. That was certainly a possibility. Maybe they'd simply learn that the Nova was nothing to be worried about, and their dreams had been nothing but silly little images in their minds.

She gave a deep, bitter sigh. Dreams really _were_ only silly little images. Dreams of victory, of vengeance, of walking again... of being treated as an equal by more than a handful of people... impossible dreams.

* * *

Milano paced in his quarters. He knew he shouldn't be ashamed, because he'd made Angel work for every blow she'd landed. It had been the best showing he could put on, and that was the important part.

He could not quite help feeling like he'd disgraced his father.

Which was funny, considering nobody knew who his father was. Hard to bring shame on someone, when the rest of the world didn't even know there was a connection.

Besides, his father didn't have a clue he was here, unless the old man was keeping a closer eye on him than he'd ever imagined—and keeping an eye on WAR's security chief was not easy. But if anyone could do it, it was Herbert Angston. Just because he'd _claimed_ he would not keep tabs on his son's movements when he left home, didn't necessarily mean nobody was watching.

It wasn't that his father was an untrustworthy man. Really, Milano couldn't blame him for whatever surveillance he may have set up. _I _am_ his only son, and I _did_ leave home for the great unknown_.

It was possible his father had kept that promise completely, and lost track of him, and did not realize that Milano Steele of WAR was in fact Milano Angston. Not difficult, as he looked nothing like he had when he'd left home, and the name had not been uncommon in his generation.

But it was equally possible that his father knew every step he'd taken since walking out the door seventeen years ago. _And so I pace about in annoyance based on a slight chance he knows and is disappointed in me? It sounds so impractical when I put it that way. ...No, it is not so easy._

He'd never actually been told that he needed to take WAR back. His father had been very supportive of him in any endeavor he chose to pursue—including, ultimately, shedding his family name and finding his own path. His had not been an unhappy childhood of darkly hinted expectations. Yet, even in his youth he could sense the cloud which hung over that household, the grief at what Hans Kreissack had done with Herbert Angston's compassionate corporate empire.

Perhaps that was why he felt shame. Not because he'd brought any disgrace upon the family himself, but because he'd suffered one more setback in preventing _Kreissack_ from disgracing it any further.

_Oh well. There will be other chances. I was born to rule this company, and someday, somehow, it will be mine_.

* * *

There had only been one fight this round, but some people had still managed to riot. The Neo Vegas city government was getting annoyed, as they felt all the rioting was hurting the city's reputation, but there wasn't much they could do about it but sigh and ask Iron Fist to take care of it.

If one examined the bets placed at the beginning of the tournament on the composition of the eventual final, Shirro vs. Angel was nowhere to be found. Of course, Shirro was on plenty of the bets, but Angel?

Angel?

Who the hell was this Angel, anyway, and why and _how_ was she tearing up WAR's most elite fighters?

Not that it mattered anymore. Milano had lost to her, again, though he'd put on a much better showing than he had in their first fight. The battle had broken Crystal and Steffan's record for longest in the tournament. Nobody could complain—unless they'd bet on Milano, but that just showed they were sore losers.

And now it was on to the final battle.

The eighth round was complete.


	23. Round Nine: Finale

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 22: Round Nine

* * *

There had been no draw. The final, of course, _must_ take place in the Stadium, as was only fitting. No hazards. No predetermined battles because of a lucky coin choice. An even playing field.

Well, that was the theory. Angel would've much preferred Seneca Crater, if they wanted an 'even' playing field. Shirro had proven in the early days of the tournament that his Flail simply loved the maddening terrain, and it certainly did not bother her Gargoyle.

The Stadium, with its low ceiling, _did_ bother her Gargoyle. Quite a bit.

_Haven't I just been here?_ she wondered as she jacked in. It had only been two fights ago, hadn't it? Shirro had defeated her then, in this very arena. Rather decisively, at that. She did not anticipate a repeat. No, perhaps the arena was in his favor, and perhaps he could fight without thought... but now, she could fight as well.

And she had the greater motivation. He was fighting for his silly human pride. She fought for the sake of her people.

He seemed confident, she mused, as she watched the Flail on the other side of the arena. Indeed, she probably appeared quite nervous, having drawn her wings around her as she awaited the beginning of the match, making the machine's body as compact as she could. Humans would tend to interpret such a gesture as worry, when she merely found it comfortable. Yes... "Things are not always what they seem."

She'd not realized this had gone to external comms—she could still slip up on these accursed machines. The opposing HAR looked up at her. "That's true. ...When this is all over, will you at least tell me where you are from? What you are?"

"I am the last thing your miserable company would expect." There was no need to hide it any longer. Once she won, all could be revealed.

"In positions please," called the referee as the match status light flickered to yellow. Angel unfolded her wings and took a step forward. The Flail rolled to meet her.

_Green_.

* * *

"This is ridiculous. I mean, he could rub it in a little more, couldn't he?"

"I'm sure he'd find a way if he wanted to."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"Besides, it'll keep us sharp for the next time."

"Think there'll be a next time?"

"Are you kidding? Look at the cash they've made off this."

"I say next time we skip the HARs."

"Probably not. You'd kill people."

"That's the general idea."

"...Oh."

"Of _course_ it is, silly."

Jean-Paul shook his head as he sat on the end of the couch and watched the monitors. If politics, as had been said for decades, could make strange bedfellows, the politics of defeat made for even stranger. _All's fair in love and WAR, right?_ Still, watching Christian, Milano, and Raven standing together having a perfectly civil (if strained) conversation was... very odd.

He had to agree with Christian, that this was ridiculous. Kreissack had somehow gotten it in his head that it would be a wonderful idea to take the eight competitors who'd already lost and stuff them all together in the Stadium's smallest observation room. Maybe he really did want people to die. _Well if that's what he's after, he messed up pretty badly_. It turned out that the failed fighters would rather complain about how stupid Kreissack was than beat each other up.

Which was just as well. He actually wanted to watch this fight, and the room devolving into a chaotic melee would make that kind of difficult.

There was probably a lesson in that somewhere, too. He was quite certain he hated Raven with a passion. Equally certain the other man wholeheartedly returned the sentiment. But he was also confident that he hated Kreissack much, much more, and it seemed when given the choice Raven agreed.

_We are enemies because Kreissack told us we are enemies. But we all have a greater enemy..._

He stole a glance at Cossette, for half a second. She didn't see. Ibrahim was talking to her, though it remained to be seen if she was listening... from the look on her face, she probably wasn't. No doubt she was angry about this little gathering.

For a moment he let himself speculate on what they were talking about. Probably HAR specifications or something equally ridiculous. (It occurred to him, briefly, that was the sort of thing he ought to enjoy. Perhaps the greatest curse of his genius was that he found most stereotypical genius conversation topics boring.) Did it matter? He was only trying to distract himself from the way the light left golden highlights in her brown hair, and the way she'd looked at him when she entered.

Not hatred.

Oh, she'd tried... he could see she'd wanted to fix him with a glare that would have incinerated him on the spot. But all that her gaze had really conveyed was curiosity. He wondered what _that_ was all about.

* * *

Flail was rather short, as HARs went, and Angel could still fly over it despite the low confines of the Stadium. There was just one minor problem—the chains could lash up and strike her from the air at any time Shirro pleased.

They had. Several times.

She refused to lose this battle, and so this had called for a reassessment of her tactics. Gargoyle owned the sky, Flail owned the ground. The sky was more or less taken from her in this place, and attempting to use it regardless was merely getting her hurt. So perhaps the answer was not in the sky.

Perhaps the answer was on the ground.

One of Shirro's chains lashed forward again and she brought a titanium wing up to block it. Bad practice in most cases, as the Gargoyle needed its wings. But in this case, they weren't helping her much, and there were no critical components within the wings except, well, the flight systems.

Expendable armor. Nothing more.

The maneuver seemed to confuse her opponent for a moment, which was understandable. Any pilot mad enough to consider their HAR's distinguishing feature expendable would cause an opponent to think twice... she wasn't about to simply going to back off and wait for him to recover. She glided forward, talons outstretched.

Shirro recovered quickly, but not quite quickly enough, and she got within the reach of his chains with only inches to spare. There was a metallic shriek as armor over the Flail's left side gave way.

What happened next, she couldn't have hoped to explain. All she knew was that she was _fighting_. Blows were flying between the two machines as fast as they were capable, and while Shirro's strikes came with reflex rather than deliberation, she would later realize that hers were the same...

The feeling was incredible. The battle came as naturally as anything she'd ever done before—her Ability, shifting between forms and the physical and mental planes, all of it faded away and she simply _fought_. It was not distasteful, as she'd originally considered human methods of physical combat. It was exhilarating.

_Is this what drives them? Not the search for victory... no desire to cause harm, but the simple thrill of testing themselves? Perhaps we have been wrong. Maybe the humans are more than mere violent barbarians after all. _

"You've gotten better." Shirro sounded pleased.

Yes. She was also pleased.

* * *

"Whoa."

"When did she learn to do that?"

"She's crazy."

"Well, yes, but it's working."

"It should. Gargoyle can be formidable on the ground when it has to be."

"Do you think she'll win?"

Ibrahim was quiet for a time, considering Milano's question. "No. He's too strong, and she took too long to realize she had to fight on the ground. You can see, she's slowing. I'm surprised she's been able to take as many hits as she has, but she shows good form in using the wings as extra armor."

Steffan tried to tune the conversation out. As the battle progressed, more and more of the pilots had gathered around the holoscreen, discussing the technical and stylistic aspects of the ongoing match. He remained silent, meeting no one's eyes. He didn't want to be here. He certainly didn't want to talk shop.

_That should be you out there._

He stiffened. No, not here. Here he could not scream and rage at that awful voice as it ridiculed his failure.

_That is fine. Sit quietly and listen. Remember how you were broken._

Broken. He remembered. He shot a frightened glance at the crimson-haired man on the end of the couch, the one who'd done this to him.

_No, coward. Don't blame others for your flaws. The chance was there to recover. It is your own fault you did not take it!_

Jean-Paul had not once looked at him. That was good. That was excellent. In fact, most were ignoring him... Crystal had, at one point, attempted to engage him in conversation.

_But of course you didn't speak to her. She lost, even sooner than you did, but at least she showed heart._

He looked at her now, standing beside her brother. He knew what they had been fighting for. They, too, had failed.

_Yes. They failed. And look at the motivation they had on their side! You, in your frailty, could not have stood a chance. You were a fool to believe so._

Steffan closed his eyes and stopped trying to deny the voice. When he agreed with it, it went away.

_I am weak. I am broken. I have no spirit... I am nothing_.

* * *

Holoscreens all throughout human space had been tuned into the battle, and the eyes of an entire race were fixed on the killing blow. It wasn't as spectacular as many would have expected. The Flail charged forward and punched the Gargoyle squarely in the center of the ribbed chest armor. No big deal, it had done that half a dozen times before...

This time, the armor cracked, allowing the fist to penetrate. Both chains flew up to force the breach. Angel managed to get a wing up to slap away one of the chains, but the other struck true, sending titanium alloy raining to the ground.

It was, technically, not Shirro's blow which disabled the opposing HAR. Instead, one of the broken armor rods was forced back by his next punch to pierce the reactor. Regardless of the exact nature of the attack, the result was simple enough. Gouts of flame burst from the Gargoyle's chest and it fell back, powerless. The battle was over.

The ninth round—the final match—was finished. Shirro had won, in a fantastic battle as so many had expected and hoped... the entire Stadium seemed to shake with the applause of the spectators.

Or perhaps that wasn't why it shook.


	24. Round Ten: Nova

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 23: Round Ten

* * *

Shirro was preparing to jack out when he felt it. A shuddering in the arena floor, faint, but there. A rhythmic pulsing... like the footsteps of a HAR. He rolled back from the fallen Gargoyle, watching his sensors carefully. He did not look around. It just didn't work that well with a Flail—problems with the lack of neck, and all.

Besides, he'd look awfully stupid glancing around in anxiety, in the middle of the Stadium, just because he was picking up vibrations of security bots outside.

No... something _was_ appearing on his sensors, from the same corridor his own Flail had come in earlier. A colossal piece of metal. That was strange. His computer couldn't seem to ID the incoming machine... the mass scanners were giving a tentative designation as a Pyros but warning that the contact was much more massive than any known Pyros model. Linear scans indicated it was closest to a Jaguar in shape, and yet, 'closest' was not very close.

He turned to look at the entrance to the Stadium, where the door was sliding open. He could see glowing red eyes approaching. But something wasn't right. His sensors were saying it was still quite far away, yet it appeared so near...

Finally it dawned on him to check his IFF readouts. The HAR's model number was NV-1, a designation he'd never seen or heard of before.

The pilot was identified as Hans Kreissack.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted without thinking. Then he shrugged, an effect which was rather odd on a Flail. "Oh well. The more the merrier!"

"Well, well..." Kreissack laughed, and it wasn't a nice laugh. Of course, his laugh rarely was, but there was something particularly vicious about it this time. "I am surprised to see you here also." His HAR reached the gate, and Shirro rolled back involuntarily. It was _huge_... standing twice the size of his Flail, it barely fit through the door into the arena. And he couldn't help thinking, with the glowing red eyes and horn-like appendages on the head, it looked a bit evil. "I suppose I should not be. You were always formidable."

"That's a nice ride you have there," Shirro offered warily, hearing danger in his employer's voice. "Wasn't aware there was a new HAR in the works."

"Oh, this is much more than a HAR. This is the ultimate evolution of mankind—and as a reward for your victory, I will show you now."

* * *

Jean-Paul had shot to his feet when the cameras shifted to show the new HAR. Cossette could not mimic the action, but her feelings on the matter were identical. She knew it. In the moment before the massive HAR stepped into the arena, revealing a blue and blood red paint job, it had been silhouetted within the gate, no features visible but its glowing eyes.

It was the creature. The monster which descended from the exploding sun.

"Nova..."

About half the room turned to look at her, and the other half at Jean-Paul, which was when she realized they'd spoken at the same time.

"Nova?" Milano repeated, looking between the two of them with confusion on his face. "You mean the Nova Project? That thing?"

"It has to be," Cossette whispered. Though of course, she could not explain the dreams—she was spared by the display of the battle on the holoscreen. The indicator for Angel's Gargoyle had been replaced by the word 'Nova'—apparently they couldn't make up a damage icon on the fly.

Raven read the screen and shrugged. "Seems like a waste of resources to me, but he's entitled to waste money if he wants. And if I get to drive one of those things—"

"I don't think it's that easy," Jean-Paul interrupted.

"Oh come on, freak. You put on the helmet, you go to sleep, you wake up, seems pretty easy to me, or is that beyond your legendary intellect?"

The other man glowered. "Turn it up."

It was Crystal who eventually obliged, though probably more for her own benefit than because Jean-Paul had said to. At about the same time the Nova made its first move, launching a flight of missiles down at its already-battered opponent. Thunderous explosions echoed through the room.

"What is he_ doing?"_ Milano asked softly. "That isn't even approaching a fair fight, especially with Shirro already damaged..."

Cossette didn't say anything, but she knew a fair fight was the least of Kreissack's concerns. _So this is Nova_. It was attacking the Flail without mercy, and Shirro wisely chose to dodge rather than taking the hits. But his ungainly HAR was not really built for such movement.

The volume was still up and they could hear the pilots arguing over their external comms. "You know, if you want a fight, at least let me go get patched up. This won't even be a good show."

"Perhaps not from your perspective. It's quite enjoyable from mine!" Nova slammed a fist on the ground, shaking the arena. Any other HAR would've been knocked off its feet, but _feet_ were yet another appendage that Flail lacked. The machine wobbled to keep its balance but did not fall. "Behold the abilities of the perfect ruler, reborn a machine!"

Cossette could feel the chill that swept through the room at these seemingly cryptic words. She wondered... _Reborn a machine_.

Jean-Paul stood quietly and moved to the door, trying to open it. It was locked, but that didn't seem to bother him—calmly he withdrew a four-pointed shuriken and slashed through one of the exposed wires of the control mechanism. The red locking light shifted green.

"What are you doing?" Raven sneered.

"I'm going to fight."

Cossette wished she'd had a pin to drop, because she was certain she would've been able to hear it in the silence that followed. "You're _what?"_ Christian repeated, and it was clear in his tone that he thought Jean-Paul was quite mad.

"I said I'm going to fight."

Milano frowned. "It's Shirro's fight."

"Is it really? I didn't see Kreissack on the list of competitors, and I'm fairly sure there wasn't an immediate tenth round on the schedule."

"Maybe, but it's still his fight."

Christian joined back in. "What do you care if he loses? He beat you."

Jean-Paul whirled on him. "He did! So what? I care if he loses because Shirro is not my enemy. _None of us are enemies_." He swept his fierce gaze over all of them. "Go on, Christian. Tell me there's one person in this room you hate more than the man who murdered your parents."

That stopped Christian as surely as a blow to the face might have. "I..."

"You can all sit here pretending you don't have any worse enemies than each other. If that makes you happy, it's your business. But that _thing_ is not a normal HAR, and this might be the last chance anyone will ever have to get rid of Kreissack." He turned back to the door. "I'm taking it."

Nobody spoke as he walked out, closing the door behind him. For a very long moment the room was cloaked with uncomfortable silence. _Is he insane?_ Cossette wondered. _What good is he going to do out there alone?_ She remembered her dream, of the elemental mass of ice and snow being vaporized by the dark creature. Even his help wouldn't stop the Nova from tearing Shirro to scrap.

The same thoughts seemed to be going through several other competitors' heads, and after a few seconds which seemed like a few hours, Christian started to move towards the door. "He's right," the young man stated, in the awed tone of one who has had a key revelation. "I joined this thing to get at Kreissack. If this is how I have to get my shot, so be it." Crystal joined him at the door and they exited.

There was a crash, gunshots, a howl of pain. Now the rest of the room surged forward, even the lethargic Steffan leaping from his spot in the corner. Cossette got to the doorway only in time to see the aftermath. Half a dozen WAR security troopers, who had at one point been heavily armed, were now strewn about the corridor in pools of their own blood.

Jean-Paul was there, sporting a brand new gash down the right side of his face, and he looked at Christian and nodded. "Thanks."

"Any time."

Raven knelt and relieved one of the bodies of its laser rifle. "They were waiting here?" His tone was deadly. More deadly than usual, anyway.

Jean-Paul and Christian both nodded. "I think we surprised them," the emerald-eyed man offered, "considering we're not perforated right now. They certainly _tried_."

Crystal's words were very soft. "This doesn't make sense."

"They were waiting for us to see Kreissack's triumph." Cossette was surprised at the strength in her own voice. "Then they would've killed us. That's why he wanted us all gathered here in one place."

There were answering nods from all present. It was all coming together, slowly but surely... "There'll be others at the pilot area," Ibrahim stated. "Kreissack is nothing if not thorough."

"Then we'll take them out on our way."

"First the lackeys, then the boss."

"We'd better move fast. Shirro won't last much longer."

Then they were all moving, quickly and with terrible purpose. Christian, Milano, and Ibrahim picked up the remaining weapons, Christian and Ibrahim handing one rifle off to Crystal and Cossette, respectively. Cossette smiled grimly. _This I can handle. You don't need legs to pull a trigger._

Jean-Paul knelt by one of the guards and pulled a shuriken from the corpse's throat, flicking the blood off before stashing it in what appeared to be a wrist sheath hidden under his jacket.

Raven glanced at him with newfound respect. "You carry those around often?"

"Never leave home without them."

Cossette arched an eyebrow. That was news to her. _I really didn't know anything about him, did I?_

"Okay, enough of the weapon admiration society," Christian snorted. "Let's go!"

They went.

* * *

It had been almost painfully easy. Three troopers each for Shirro and Angel's jack rooms had been quite efficiently executed with high-powered laser bolts, only one or two even knowing what had hit them. Several of their techs had been in the HAR bays, so when the HARs they were tending to suddenly powered up, it was a rather simple matter to convince them to head for the pilot area and defend it.

None of the techs had argued. After all, if their bosses were executed, their job prospects would probably decrease a great deal.

Steffan awoke inside his Chronos, explained the situation to Plug, and looked around. He felt none of the usual rush from jacking in, only a deep emptiness.

_I am nothing_.

Perhaps he should stay here. He would be no help to them... he saw the other HARs on his sensors, moving from their bays, gathering in the middle of the hangar and preparing. They were warriors, they had spirit. He shouldn't be getting in their way.

Then one of them was approaching him. Crystal's Jaguar, wearing its paint job of gleaming blue accented by golden feline spots. "Everything okay, Steffan?"

Okay? Everything okay? How could she ask that, couldn't they all see he was broken? But the Jaguar was gesturing for him to follow. He followed, unable to gather the motivation to refuse.

They sprinted through the corridor, Christian's Katana in the lead. Steffan was certain they would find security bots waiting to bar their passage but there was nothing in their way... the hangar was near the Stadium, for obvious reasons, and soon enough they stood at the now-closed gate.

"I've got this," Christian declared, his Katana's blades flashing before him.

"Christian, don't, the door's—"

CRASH.

"—molecularly shielded," Ibrahim finished, too late. "No doubt thinking of exactly what you just tried."

"No doubt." Christian picked the HAR up off the ground and checked his blades for damage. "Anyone else have any ideas? It'll kind of suck to be standing here ready to save Shirro's ass and not be able to get inside."

There was a long silence, then Raven's Pyros moved forward. "Freak?"

Jean-Paul's Shadow had also stepped up to the door. "Bird?"

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Go for it."

Both arms and thrusters came up and flames spewed from the Pyros, turning the metal of the door white-hot. "Now!" The flames cut off, and a mass of ice slammed up against the heated surface. Jagged cracks appeared in the door.

"Okay Christian, why don't you try again."

"With pleasure." This time the Katana's attack made an even worse crash, as this time the door exploded into a hundred fragments of brittle steel.

Nova turned to look at them. "What now?" Kreissack sounded quite unworried by the sudden appearance of eight more HARs for his super-machine to deal with. In fact, he seemed highly amused. "More toys for me to break? You are all too kind..."

"No. The game is over now. Your days of power will end here!" The Shadow sprinted past Christian's recovering Katana and vaulted into the air, trailing condensation. Another blast of semi-solid nitrogen shot from the HAR at the apex of its jump and then it was landing beside Shirro's Flail on the other side of the Nova.

Christian and Milano both sprinted forward to take advantage of the Nova's frozen state, but that was not to be. The massive HAR broke free of the ice's hold seemingly without effort, sidestepped the Katana's blades, then reached out and seized the Shredder around its neck. The massive fist closed tightly and severed the HAR's head from its shoulders.

Milano's scream of pain was abruptly cut off, and the Nova tossed his machine aside like so much garbage.

"Fools! My days of power have just begun!"

Somewhere inside Steffan, he felt a spark. He had not fought for this. He had entered believing this had all meant something. Yes, he'd been broken... because he thought he had failed in a fight that mattered. It hadn't mattered. The whole contest was only over the right to become Kreissack's punching bag.

_You see, you are too weak to even succeed at play-pretend battles_.

No. He wouldn't accept that. There was something welling up inside him. _I took a risk. I entered. I was fighting for Ganymede. Ganymede was worth the risk. This is not. I did not break for this!_

Steffan stepped forward and the stasis core in his chest spun rapidly, releasing the crystalline field activator as he focused. Nova, preoccupied with a strike from Ibrahim's Thorn, didn't see it coming, and the crystal impacted on its arm.

The arm, and only the arm, ceased to move.

"Holy..."

"Well _that's_ unique."

"Okay, Ib? Unique, in this situation, is not a good thing!" That last came from Shirro, whose Flail had retreated into the northwest corner. Steffan couldn't blame him, as the Flail's armor was more memory than material, and a chain had been torn clean off. He had to be in all sorts of pain.

Yet he stayed jacked in. Why?

_Because he has spirit._

Cossette's Electra had been edging around to flank the huge enemy HAR and now loosed twin balls of lightning at the Nova. These both struck, blasting armor from the monster. Not a lot of armor, but every little bit helped.

Kreissack snarled in rage and raised the Nova's arm. Something small and gray (small, Steffan realized, only in relation—it was probably the size of his Chronos' head) shot out and rolled at the Electra, then exploded in a hail of fire and shrapnel. Two missiles almost immediately followed the grenade, both taking the Electra squarely in the chest and causing armor plates to fall like rain.

It looked like a good time to retreat, but Cossette did quite the opposite, coiling into a ball and shooting forward. Electra's spike-covered frame moved far too quickly for Kreissack to dodge and the Nova shuddered from the blow. It cost her, as Kreissack's next blow was powerful enough to send her smashing into the wall, but she was on her feet again without hesitation.

_Spirit_.

A Shadow projection sprang forward to land a kick on the Nova's head, and for a moment it seemed it would succeed. At the last second, one of Kreissack's huge fists came down and slammed into the shadow's chest plate. Instantly it faded away. At the same time Jean-Paul howled and collapsed in a heap against the wall, the real Shadow now sporting a massive hole over its chest. Pale fog poured from every seam in the HAR's armor—apparently the nitrogen core had been breached.

Steffan checked his damage displays, wondering why the Shadow did not stand, and saw the Nova's blow had destroyed the smaller machine's movement systems as well.

"_Override!"_ The desperate cry rang over internal comms as Jean-Paul ordered his machine not to force him out.

Ibrahim turned to look at the fallen Shadow. "Just jack out Jean-Paul, you can't do any good like that!"

"I can still scan him! One less thing for you to worry about."

_Spirit_.

Steffan stared at the Nova for a long time, watching it brush off still more attacks as little more than impudent annoyances. He needed to move, to strike... but his best attack had all but failed. Still, there had to be _something!_

_Why do you not fight, coward? Because you are weak._

"I am not weak," he whispered, the words drowned out by Crystal's scream as the Nova ripped one of the Jaguar's arms off. She did not jack out, as most would after such grievous injury, but answered with a shot from her concussion cannon as she jumped away.

_Spirit._

He switched off all comms, speaking only to that voice in his head. "I have spirit. I didn't fight for this. I did not _break_ for this." Yes. Two years of training, four weeks of battle, three times feeling his body shattered and destroyed in the arena. It had all been for nothing, and he was no longer empty. He was angry.

_If you have spirit, then prove it!_

"I will." One of the Chronos' fists clenched as he angled himself for a run. "I will prove it. I'll be a hero, and you will leave. Or I'll die, and well... you'll be out of my head just the same!"

* * *

Christian rolled under another missile and cursed. "How many of those damned things does he have?"

"They have to be coming from somewhere," Raven countered. His Pyros was not so maneuverable and was sporting several holes from missile and grenade hits. "Jean-Paul, can you figure out where his ammo bins are?"

"On it." The Shadow's eyes glowed faintly from its position by the north wall.

Crystal was maneuvering for position to get a concussion cannon shot in—hopefully in back, just between the shoulders, where she'd already managed two solid hits. Nova was big and powerful and heavily armored, but enough damage and it _would_ go down. The problem was simply outlasting it... which, admittedly, they weren't doing so well.

Steffan's voice came over internal comms, soft but determined. "Guys, back off, give me some room." She was surprised—it was the first time she'd heard anything but a soulless monotone out of him in weeks. "I have an idea."

"All yours." It was, perhaps, a noble thing they were doing out here. That didn't mean any of them would pass up an opportunity to get away from the monstrous HAR if such an opportunity presented itself. But she looked at the Chronos in curiosity, wondering what the young pilot had in mind.

It was charging.

"Got it," Jean-Paul reported, oblivious to what had happened since beginning his scan. "Munitions storage in the left shoulder." Crystal accepted a signal from the Shadow, letting the overlay from its scan flicker on the Nova for a few moments.

She looked back at Steffan and would have gasped, if HARs could draw breath. He was still charging, and the Chronos' stasis core was whirling faster than she had ever seen... beginning to glow with colorless energy and shoot out brilliant sparks. "Steffan, are you crazy?"

"We'll see." He switched over to external speakers. "Come on Kreissack, let's see you smash this!"

"Ha! You're barely out of diapers!" the Nova sneered, facing him with arms outstretched.

Ibrahim sounded incredulous. "Surely he isn't actually going to take that?"

"I think he's allowed a little overconfidence," Crystal muttered wryly. The ache in her arm had not subsided, though the HAR's main computer had disabled all physical sensors nearby, 'cauterizing' the wound. She wasn't quite certain why the Nova _shouldn't_ take Steffan's charge, but Ibrahim was the expert.

"Besides," Cossette agreed, "who was it that said you should never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake?"

"Last time I heard it, my tech."

Raven snorted. "Probably not the person she was going for."

Crystal wondered how this had all happened. Not half an hour ago, they'd been seated in an observation room, making strained conversation and bitterly contemplating their losses to each other. Now they stood arrayed against the most formidable HAR ever built, working as a team... not a flawless team by any means, but certainly _together_.

Maybe Jean-Paul had been right. Kreissack was the ultimate enemy. She wondered, as she watched Steffan's mad charge, how it was that they had all been brought together, to put aside their petty rivalries for this moment... because somehow she knew this was greater than a single battle. Perhaps greater than all of WAR.

_Impact_. Nova planted one fist into the oncoming Chronos' stasis core, prompting a horrible, piercing whine as the rapidly spinning piece of equipment still attempted to rotate despite being hopelessly shattered. Then a white glow seemed to build from the destroyed generator, enveloping Chronos and Nova in its blinding light. Jaguar's optical sensors adjusted to the radiance and again Crystal wanted to gasp.

The Chronos was gone, all but vaporized by the reaction. And Nova stood perfectly still, in an unbalanced position no HAR would actually be able to hold on its own.

There was no time to think. Raven was swooping in with flamethrowers blazing, aiming for Kreissack's left shoulder. Crystal didn't wait to see the results as she jumped easily over the Nova and landed at its back. Immediately she was targeting. Straining the concussion cannon she fired one blast—two—three—warning alarms told her she must stop and let the barrel cool or risk losing the weapon.

Then Cossette was next to her, launching two spheres of lightning to punch in just behind her cannon blasts. A gaping hole opened in the Nova's back.

Christian and Ibrahim had both gone for Kreissack's right leg, where Ibrahim had already landed a decent hit—though the Thorn had lost both of its large elbow spikes on that maneuver, vastly lowering its effectiveness. Now both were able to punch through the armor deeply and without fear of retaliation.

Then a massive explosion sent them all reeling back. "Think I overheated the ammo," Raven commented unnecessarily at the same time. When the smoke cleared they could see another hole coring through the HAR, allowing Cossette and Crystal behind it to look through at the Pyros in front.

The entire process had taken approximately ten seconds.

"Get back!" Jean-Paul yelled. "The stasis field's fading!"

Not fast enough. Nova returned to its senses with a roar of fury that would forever haunt Crystal's nightmares. It staggered forward, kicked Christian to the ground as he retreated, and brought one massive foot down on the Katana's chest. Fire shot up as the HAR's reactor was shattered.

"Did you insects really think that trick was enough to stop me?" Kreissack bellowed, turning on Raven and stalking forward. "I'll defeat you here, then find you once you awaken and crush you all like the bugs you are!"

* * *

Shirro rolled forward. It seemed like every meter was a thousand times that, but he forced the Flail to move.

"You can't afford to take any more hits from that thing," Jean-Paul protested as the awkward HAR wheeled past his position.

"And the rest of you can?" They were a sad sight, to be sure. An immobile Shadow with its weapons destroyed, an Electra and Pyros each with more holes than armor, a one-armed Jaguar, a Thorn without its spikes... and strewn about the arena, the corpses of other HARs.

Angel's Gargoyle, shattered from the fatal explosion he had caused.

Milano's Shredder, the head on one side of the arena, body on the other.

A few bits of debris that had once been Steffan's Chronos, annihilated making its critical sacrifice.

Christian's Katana, now only a burning shell of its former glory.

He wanted to shake his head at the senseless waste, but the Flail had no head that could be shaken. As it was he gave a low hiss of disgust. _All this devastation for what? One man's ambition. Perhaps we all fought for our ambition, but none of us would have caused this madness_. _And what does he have to prove? He already owns everything!_

He wanted to be optimistic. But how? There was so little to be optimistic about on this broken battlefield.

He remembered Kreissack's words, before the others had arrived. _Reborn a machine_. And he wondered... _Nova Project_... could it be possible?

"This is insane." The Flail continued to struggle onward. Nova was occupied, its back facing him, battering the Pyros without mercy. No, wrong... with just enough mercy not to cause critical damage, that Raven would continue to feel his blows rather than being forced out.

Ibrahim's voice crackled in his ears. "You have to end it, old friend. This was your fight. We intervened, we evened the odds. You _must_ land the final blow."

"I know." It irked him, that politics would be a part of this fight, but Kreissack had made it so and Ibrahim was absolutely correct. Anyone else landing the killing blow would have a legitimate claim as winner of the tournament, and the chaos from such a thing could not mean well for anyone.

It was hard for Shirro to say if he even wanted Ganymede anymore, but he knew he must seal his victory.

"The hole in his back," Cossette spoke. "You should be able to reach something critical through there."

"A long way up for this builder-bot."

"No problem." Crystal walked towards him. "I'll give you a lift. Say the word."

"Do it fast," Raven growled, "I'm not going to be a punching bag forever!" The Pyros was managing to slap a few blows away, but many more were still landing.

"No problem." Shirro looked at the Jaguar and gave her a thumbs-up. "I'm ready to ride."

Even one-armed, the Jaguar's strength and speed were a thing of beauty. Ibrahim had designed his masterpiece well. The Jaguar reached down and seized his Flail by the back, whirled, and sent him flying at the Nova, full speed ahead. _No turning back now_.

Not that there had ever been any turning back.

His remaining chain snapped forward and widened the hole in Nova's armor, then the rest of the Flail made contact. One of his huge fists managed to reach up and clamp around Nova's remaining intact shoulder, and he slammed the other hand through the breach.

A wave of heat washing over his arm told him he'd found the reactor, and he let go, rolling away as quickly as he could to avoid being in the monstrous HAR's way as it fell. But it did not fall. Shirro couldn't believe it—what more did he have to do?

But Kreissack was screaming. "NO! Impossible! I am... I AM NOVA! I CANNOT DIE!" Flames were flickering from the inside of the Nova, yet he merely stood there howling his rage and denial. Why wasn't he jacking out?

_Reborn a machine_.

The Nova exploded.

As if the roar of the explosion had held physical force, Shirro could no longer hold himself upright, and the Flail collapsed face-first to the ground. The last thing he saw before jacking out was a large piece of debris landing in front of him.

Nova's head.


	25. Beginning of the End

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 24: Beginning of the End

* * *

It was a month since the end of the tournament. That month could quite justifiably be called _utter chaos_, and in fact, many were calling it exactly that.

The completed Nova Project had been revealed and then destroyed in a bit under an hour. Many had felt that Kreissack was a little mad (perhaps, more than a little), but the concept of his actually putting his brain inside of a robot took a very long time to grasp. The main lab for the project had been destroyed in a massive fire, and the Major's lifeless body found in a dumpster outside. The shock throughout human-occupied space had been indescribable.

With Kreissack's demise, Shirro had unanimously been elected the new CEO for all of WAR by a board expecting more of the same. A peculiar irony, however: with the victor of the tournament moving on, Ganymede was still without a leader. Colonization was postponed while Shirro worked to consolidate his power base, not to mention dealing with the PR disaster of the Nova.

Angel had spent some time in a coma. Placement of the Gargoyle's reactor and neural receptor ensured that the receptor had been destroyed by the reactor explosion, and the neural shock had not agreed with her at all... Shirro had been genuinely concerned for her and ensured that she received the best care possible. The doctors, however, were very confused by the whole ordeal, as she seemed to simply recover independent of their efforts—though it had taken nearly the full month since the tournament's end.

The competitors had been placed under de facto house arrest in Cheyenne Mountain until Shirro could gauge their intentions. Which many agreed made some logical sense, but it _did not_ make them happy. At the same time, against all expectations, he'd started a radical reform effort within WAR that made quite a few people question his own sanity.

The board, used to their vast influence and cushy lifestyles under Kreissack, had revolted at Shirro's new ideas for a more democratic and consumer-responsive government and corporation. Not to mention they felt betrayed by the man they'd elected. In a move that stunned all observers, Shirro had answered their complaints by summarily dismissing the entire body and searching for new board members who would be more agreeable to his goals.

Naturally, the board had not liked this. They'd plotted revenge...

And _that_ was why Jean-Paul presently found himself sprinting down the deserted corridors of the besieged Cheyenne Mountain complex, Christian in tow. They'd met quite by accident, but it had seemed only logical to team up, considering the circumstances. The younger man slowed him down slightly... but the advantage of an extra target well outweighed that minor issue.

"Armory... up ahead... next right, then left."

There was that, too—Christian had the advantage of four years of being assigned to this maze. Jean-Paul had about three months and had not bothered to familiarize himself with every twist and turn of the complex.

"Awww hell." Upon turning the first corner they found themselves face to face with five of the board-hired terrorists who'd been dispatched to the complex some half an hour ago. Both dove back around the corner just in time to avoid the ensuing hail of bullets.

"Great. How do we handle this?"

"I doubt they come charging after us... immediately."

"So swing back around and start blasting?"

"Let's see... they outnumber us, they're expecting us, and they've got bigger guns. No thanks."

"Then what do you suggest?" Christian watched the corner warily. "They'll outclass us until we get to the armory. Which involves getting past them."

Jean-Paul considered the matter for a moment, then looked at the near wall, where a pair of vending machines stood happily oblivious to all that was happening around them. _That could work_. He withdrew his ID card and swiped it, waited for the machine to confirm his account, and punched buttons until three cans of soda clattered out.

His partner was giving him a very odd look. "Is this really the time for a drink break?"

"Watch carefully, Christian. It's never too late to learn situational awareness." He picked up one can, shook it vigorously, then shot out of hiding just long enough to fling it into the mass of mercenaries.

There was a meaty _thunk_ and a howl of pain. Better than he'd been expecting, he'd actually hit one of them. Then came the sound of an exploding aluminum can and hyper-carbonated liquid spraying out everywhere.

"Oh sweet."

Christian picked up one of the remaining cans, Jean-Paul the other, and both darted from cover again. This time the enemies were closer, and running, the missile having apparently convinced them that storming around the corner would not in fact take them into the teeth of heavily armed resistance. None of them had the sense to duck as two more soda cans came flying at them.

There was a click as one did, at least, have the sense to try shooting at their targets, but the sticky liquid had apparently gotten into his weapon. Christian unceremoniously shot him as they sprinted past, then they were to the next corridor. Fortunately, as it _did_ hold an armory and all, this hall had a nice set of blast doors to close behind them.

"Soft drink grenades. You're crazy."

"Resourceful."

"Same thing."

It took Jean-Paul about fifteen seconds to hack the lock, which made him feel better, as at least it meant the other side hadn't been in here before them. He slammed the door shut behind them and both men took a moment for the obligatory admiration of mass quantities of firepower.

"Shame. I don't think we can carry all this."

"I wonder if our HARs could carry all of this."

"Your HAR. Mine doesn't have hands."

"Answers that question." Jean-Paul fell silent and picked out a few ammunition packs for his sidearm, a flechette pistol which—he was the first to admit—he carried more for the intimidation factor than the belief he could actually hit anything with it. (It was just that walking around WAR without a sidearm was generally accepted to be unintelligent.)

Glancing up he saw Christian reloading his slug thrower, acquiring a machine gun, then picking up a selection of grenades. "Suppose we oughta take the power armor?"

Jean-Paul looked at the suits hanging on the wall and snorted derisively. WAR had stopped developing human armor when HARs got popular. "You want to wear a death suit that hasn't changed since 2060, go for it."

"Cynic."

"Realist. But, same thing." He shrugged and returned his attention to a selection of darts and throwing knives, but to his disgust there were no shuriken to be found. He settled for taking a few shrapnel grenades from the same stash Christian had looted—and as somewhat of an afterthought, a med kit.

They were off again.

It took another half hour to reach the nearest exit, but reach it they did and looked at each other awkwardly. They had never met prior to the tournament, and who knew what was to come of them now? Yet in battling the Nova, and again for that short stretch of time as they fought their way free of hell, they had been brothers in arms, and that had to count for something.

"Well, I've just learned a few things."

"Oh?"

"One, real grenades make better grenades than soft drink cans, but the cans are more readily available. Two, those armories I always thought were in weird places actually have a purpose. Three, the more firepower you have, the easier it is to leave a building."

"Excellent. I learned that everything, including the hiring of terrorists, is hopelessly botched when you put politicians in charge."

They both snickered.

"Um. ...I s'pose you can come with me if you want. My sister's waiting with a shuttle."

Jean-Paul had to admit it was tempting, but something was tugging at the edge of his mind and he shook his head. "There's something else I have to do first."

They looked at each other for another long moment, then spoke at the same time. "Good luck." And they went their separate ways.

* * *

There were, Cossette admitted to herself, certain advantages to being stuck in this wheelchair. Most applicable at the moment was that it offered a lot of space for concealed weaponry.

Being who she was, Cossette had taken advantage of this without hesitation since being stuck in the Cheyenne Mountain complex for a month, and the terrorists who'd barged into her office had been rewarded with flamethrower blasts to the face for their trouble. Now she was quite calmly wheeling her way through the corridors with a rocket launcher in her lap.

Recoil was not an issue. Most people had to take time to brace themselves before firing such a weapon. All she had to do was hit the brakes.

After about the first three groups (how many of these damned mercenaries had they hired, anyway?) she'd started entering corpse-strewn hallways which were now deserted. Many corpses were terrorists, but even more were WAR personnel. She did not allow herself to feel sorrow. That could wait until she had reached safety and could afford such thoughts. Right now survival was at the front of her mind, and when something came around the corner she raised the launcher immediately.

Then stopped. "Angel?"

The young woman gazed at her with eyes that glowed jade green. "You shall not pass, human. I have waited long enough, and now you will give me answers."

_Answers? No, it doesn't matter_. "Angel, this is _not_ a good time. There's still crazies with guns running around all over the place, if you haven't noticed. So how about we get out of here first and ask questions later?"

Around her the corridor began to shift. Crystals emitting a soft white light sprouted from the walls and floor, though they all seemed to miss her chair. "No. Mere humans cannot reach this place unless I wish it. You will remain here until you tell me what I wish to know."

Cossette could not explain what instinct it was that caused her to lower her weapon rather than pulling the trigger and blowing the mysterious competitor into her component atoms. Somehow the young woman's words made sense to her. "Answer my questions and perhaps I'll answer yours. How are you doing this?" she asked. Her tone was forceful, but not entirely hostile, as she looked around at the crystals.

To her surprise, Angel addressed that question, though it was not the sort of answer she'd been looking for. "You should know that, disgusting human. You have the Ability and do not even honor and respect it, do not even realize what a gift you possess!"

"Ability?"

"Disgusting," Angel repeated, shaking her head. "Your Ability is weak, yet it was strong enough to grant you visions. Visions of the project you call Nova. Visions I have watched from afar since this tournament began."

Cossette actually dropped the rocket launcher at that. "_What?_" She waited for several moments, trying to wrap her mind around this statement. "You've been watching... my dreams?"

"Of course I have!" Angel glared. "I put it aside for a time, as my mission in your tournament was more important. But now, human, we stand on the mental plane, a place where the Ability has brought you at my will. I am the master of this place. And if you do not wish your mind rent to shreds, you will tell me of this cataclysm, of this Nova you humans pursue!"

It was becoming irritating, really, the way Angel was turning Cossette into little more than a hopelessly bewildered onlooker. But she did understand one thing. _She wants me to tell her about the Nova Project? But that's all the media was talking about for weeks after the tournament!_

Then comprehension dawned. The other woman had been unconscious for nearly the whole month, and probably hadn't had time to catch up on the news. "Angel... the Nova Project is destroyed."

"Lies. You _will_ tell me why you seek to cause the cataclysm." The crystals around them pulsed brighter and one dislodged, shooting from the wall to tear a wound in her shoulder. "Your Ability is weak and uncontrolled. You cannot hope to stand against me here, on the mental plane, so you had best speak. Quickly."

Cossette snarled in anger at the cut, but the place was so surreal she didn't think she wanted to shoot... yet. She was fairly certain she wasn't dreaming, yet what she was seeing was quite impossible. But then, everything about Angel had always seemed slightly wrong. _And why does she keep calling me 'human'? Surely she can't be..._

Something tugged at her and looking down, she saw a thread. It was a soft aqua color, extending far into the distance, and along its length it began to shift color until becoming a pure emerald green. _What does that mean?_

"Answer, human!"

"I already answered you, and you're starting to annoy me." She bent over to retrieve the rocket launcher and as she did so, she felt a chill wind sweep through the corridor. A low cry of rage and frustration that she recognized as coming from Angel sounded, echoing from the crystals, and as she rose she saw snowflakes carried on the wind.

Something flashed in the air, something small and silver, and Angel's eyes went wide. Slowly she reached up, hand behind her head, and pulled a throwing star from the back of her neck. Cossette had just enough time to see there was no blood on the weapon before Angel turned to face its source...

There was a wound, but no blood. Instead silver light poured from the cut.

"Why are you here, human? Have you not endured enough harm on this mental plane?"

"Why are _you_ here, Angel? The battle is over. We have no quarrel with you." A voice, soft and deep and slightly rough. Cossette knew it in an instant. _Jean-Paul... but how can he be here?_

Angel gazed at him, radiating deepest malevolence. "I have a quarrel with those who would destroy the Life-Giver. Very well. You are here, and this human infected you with her Ability and her visions. _You_ will tell me of the Nova!"

He now looked just as mystified as Cossette had been. "Eh? You went to all this trouble to... ask us why we blew Kreissack to hell?"

"I have not sensed the one called Kreissack since I awakened. Was he eliminated to make way for the cataclysm?"

"Nnno..." Jean-Paul's voice was very low, as if he were more grumbling to himself than answering Angel's question. "He was eliminated because, you know, he was a bleeding _psychopath_..."

"Angel." Cossette decided to try again. "What cataclysm are you talking about?"

Her eyes burned with fury. "I told you, human, I have seen your visions! I have seen the destruction of the great star—the Nova which rains fire upon your world! YOU WILL TELL ME WHY!"

* * *

There was silence in the corridor. In a small part of her mind Angel savored it, because humans seemed to like few things better than hearing the sound of their own voices. But no, she could not afford to enjoy the silence—the humans _should_ be talking, should be telling her why they meant to destroy the Life-Giver.

"Angel." The one called Jean-Paul fixed her with his emerald gaze. "Calm down and let me see if I understand you correctly."

Pathetic humans. Even the genius could not comprehend her simple questions! "Very well." She did calm, for rage was unbecoming of a Tanmari, a master of the mind. "You may do so."

"You saw our dreams... somehow."

"Yes." Not worth explaining how. No sense confusing his feeble human intellect.

"And you saw the sun explode."

'Sun' was their word for the great star C'keir, if she recalled correctly. Such a small and foolish word to describe such an important entity. "Yes."

"And you realized that we were linking it with the Nova Project."

"Yes."

"So you assumed that the Nova Project was actually... trying to blow up the sun?"

She scowled at him. "What else could it be?"

Cossette had been silent until then. "Oh. My. God."

A human phrase of disbelief. Angel wanted to laugh in triumph at the human's surprise, that someone had actually discovered the truth... and yet, what she felt from them both, more than anything else, was sheer amazement. No concern that their madness had been discovered, no fear that she might stop their project here and now. Only shock.

"You're a little confused," Jean-Paul stated finally. "You were unconscious, you didn't see the results... but the Nova Project was completed a month ago."

She frowned at him. "Impossible! The Life-Giver still shines."

"Of course it does!" Cossette snarled, finally losing her hold on her temper. "Nobody was _trying_ to do anything to the sun, Angel, those dreams you're so proud of yourself for watching were only metaphors!"

It was peculiar, Angel would conclude later, how things worked. If Cossette had made any other argument she probably would have merely blown it off, since it did not fit with her preconceived notions, the foolish conclusions she had drawn and then decided must be real. But she had spoken a word, a human word Angel did not know. "A... metaphor? What does this mean?"

Jean-Paul muttered something most humans would have considered vulgar. "What the hell are you?"

"I am asking the questions here, human."

"Yes, and they're really strange ones."

Cossette looked at Jean-Paul and shook her head to silence him. "A metaphor is... well, it's a symbol. We saw the sun exploding and that's what told us we were dreaming about the Nova Project. It doesn't mean that's actually what the Nova was—since it _wasn't_, it was a HAR with a brain in it, but I'll let you research that on your own."

They seemed sincere. Angel was silent. "A symbol," she repeated finally. "Then... you saw the nova because the project was called Nova, rather than the project being Nova because its intent was to cause a nova?" It was not easy to grasp, yet the more she thought of it the more sense it seemed to make. How... how could she have been so wrong?

_I was blind. Terribly blind._

She looked at the two of them, watching her suspiciously. Perhaps they expected her to start shouting again. There was much she wanted to ask them, but right now, all she could think was that the humans could not be allowed to see her in all her error and shame.

Angel inclined her head in what she knew their race considered a gesture of respect. "For your explanation, you have the gratitude of the Tanmari, masters of the Ability and the moon you call Ganymede. I will leave you now." And she flung them from the mental plane, shifting out of her human form and fleeing from the WAR complex.

* * *

Misty glanced up at the sound of footsteps and_ something else_ entering the HAR bay. Her laser rifle's charge was running a bit low, but she was not in danger yet... Ratchet moved up beside her, holding his shotgun. They had joined forces when it became apparent the hangar was a prime target for the invading mercenaries.

All modesty aside, Misty thought they'd done quite well.

"Hang on," Ratchet muttered, relaxing. "Ain't a threat, I'd know that sound anywhere. It's the she-demon-mobile."

"The what?"

"My boss's chair."

Misty relaxed. Soon enough she came into view, a woman in a wheelchair brandishing a rocket launcher. The image struck her as amusing, and yet so very typical of Cossette Akira that she could not immediately figure out why she didn't carry the weapon all the time.

Then her eyes widened, as Jean-Paul appeared in the doorway.

Cossette was the first to speak. "You two alright?"

"Oh yeah, we're havin' us a happy little party in here, ya come to join the fun or what?"

"We were thinking something more like, we're getting out of here and you're coming with us."

Techie reflexes kicked in and Misty's gaze immediately went to the Shadow. She caught Ratchet staring at his boss's Electra and smiled weakly. _Yes, we have our priorities straight_.

"Bring the control helmets," Cossette answered readily. "We can jack in and get the HARs out once we get somewhere a little safer."

Getting the helmets was done quickly, but as they were getting ready to leave, a low groan from a corner of the bay distracted them. Ratchet's eyes flashed and he raised the shotgun. "Easy," Jean-Paul cautioned, though his own sidearm was drawn as well. Approaching the corner they saw a male figure hidden—or trapped—or probably both—beneath a large section of the ceiling that had fallen in when Crystal's Jaguar had fought its way out of the hangar.

The man looked up at them with bleary brown eyes. "Delaney, that you?"

"Falks?" Jean-Paul frowned. "What are you doing here?" He and Ratchet moved forward quickly to clear the debris.

"Well, I came to see the fights, like anything coulda kept me away... you made a good showing with my baby, I must admit." He grimaced and writhed out from under the mess of plaster and piping. "Man, that stings... anyway, think I overstayed a bit. Was just wandering around checking out the bots when the whole place went nuts."

Jean-Paul produced a med kit, but Misty quietly wrested it from him before he could do anything with it. Not that she doubted his ability to read instructions, but techs had to take exhaustive first aid training. She highly doubted he could match her in that, genius or not... Falks looked at her with more interest than anything as she approached. "Stay still. I'll inject you with an adrenaline booster until we can get out of here."

"Out of here?" he repeated curiously. "Where to?"

"Still working on that." Actually, she hadn't even thought about it until that moment, but it _did_ seem like a perfectly logical course of action.

Cossette was frowning. "I have a friend in Iron Fist who's on assignment in Kiowa right now, and I'm sure if we happened to show up she'd be willing to help us. Shouldn't take over an hour if we can find a fast transport."

"Ya think our pals with the guns ain't gonna notice some transport just blastin' its way outta here?" Ratchet asked skeptically. "Seen enougha this lot t' think they got the entrances pretty staked out."

"I'll create a diversion for you," Jean-Paul offered immediately.

Misty looked at him in alarm. Such a proposal was actually rather out of character for him, and she wondered what else he was up to... but it seemed obvious that he meant it. "Alone? Are you crazy?"

"That's not the first time you've asked me that, and I'll let that fact speak for itself. Do you have a better idea?"

Falks didn't seem to like the idea much better. "How are you gonna get back and meet up with us then? Awful long way to hoof it."

Groan. "Trust me, Falks, I'm perfectly capable of stealing a vehicle _all by myself_."

"Yeah, but can you drive it?"

The look on Jean-Paul's face was a sight to behold, and Falks made a great show of hiding behind Cossette's wheelchair. "Unless anyone _else_ would like to volunteer for being the lone diversion, I suggest we hurry up." Nobody offered.

On the way out, he looked at Misty and their eyes met. "You'll have to retrieve Gemini for me."

She nodded. "Understood. Come back in one piece."

"I intend to."


	26. Sitrep

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 25: Sitrep

* * *

Jean-Paul threw himself into a row of hedges, just barely avoiding the bullets that crashed through the vegetation after him. He'd shaken or killed most of the pursuers, but this one was very good... he wished he'd picked up a few more grenades on his way out of the complex. 

As it was, he wasn't about to use his shuriken in a running battle where he probably couldn't retrieve them, as they were rather difficult to acquire even when the world _wasn't_ descending into chaos. But that left him with his sidearm and that was all. This was an issue, as his enemy seemed to have realized he couldn't hit much of anything, and was showing good form in not even slowing when his target shot back at him.

_It probably won't hit him, so nothing to worry about. If it does, well, he can worry about that when it happens._

Fortunately, while excellent at keeping track of his quarry, the terrorist didn't seem to be much good with a firearm himself. That or it was difficult to manage the machine gun's recoil while on the run... which, as Jean-Paul thought about it, seemed more logical.

By some cruel irony, just as this thought passed through his mind a new burst opened up, mostly passing to his left. One bullet hit, however, grazing his side and opening a burning wound over his ribs. He dove to the ground—half from pain, half from instinct.

Staying down would be suicidal, he determined as his pursuer came towards him, reaching a range where he could not possibly miss. The machine gun lowered, barrel squarely over his heart.

Unfortunately for what had, for the time, seemed like a rather intelligent hunter, he'd gotten close enough that even Jean-Paul could fire with reasonable accuracy. _Not that I'm going to complain if you want to be stupid_. Rolling out of the path of the bullets he brought the flechette pistol up and fired once, twice, three times.

One projectile sailed by its target with a good four inches to spare. One scraped his shoulder, tearing fabric but not appearing to draw blood. The last one ripped squarely into and through the hunter's eye.

Jean-Paul looked away and fought back the bile rising in his throat. He could hardly complain about eliminating the man, but... it was not, to put it lightly, the prettiest of sights. _If I never have to do that again, it'll be _way_ too soon_.

The pain in his side was becoming more fierce now, and for the first time he deigned to actually look at his own injury. The entire left side of his shirt was soaked red. _Okay, that's not good_. He tried to get his bearings. Was there a hospital around here? Surely there must be... he frowned as he recognized the street.

Through the growing fog of pain, his mind remembered a promise. Then he was moving, struggling through some unseen current, knowing he only had to get another few hundred yards...

_Lance_.

* * *

"You know, I'm sure there's _some_ reason we came here." 

"Brainpower?"

"Survival instinct?"

"Change o' scenery?"

Tanith snickered and shook her head, but quickly her expression became more serious. "It's a good thing you did. The attack's all over the news... it's a mess out there right now. The toppers were even thinking about sending this unit in, but Shirro sent us a stand-down order." Cossette didn't know how exactly Iron Fist had gone to taking Shirro's orders after Kreissack's death. Perhaps he'd hired them, though it surprised her there had been no public announcement of the fact. "The terrorists or mercenaries or whatever you wanna call them have taken over, since Shirro practically gave the place away. He's headed for the Border Command fortress on Luna, and we're stuck here knowing there's a loyalist stronghold an hour down the road."

"Why wouldn't he want to keep the facility?" Misty asked, frowning.

"Not a clue. Though, the word is, he was one of the last out and knew the place was lost anyway." She looked irritated, which Cossette could understand. Iron Fist was a full-fledged combat unit. Here they were with a real fight for the first time since World War III and they were being told to _stand down_. "There's rumors he'll be setting up a counterattack from Border Command."

"After givin' em time t' reinforce," Ratchet muttered in disgust.

"Tradeoffs. I'm sure he's hoping they don't have a lot in the way of support, but Shirro's got the whole Fist on his side." Tanith spoke with pride, and why not? Her unit was a considerable force. "We'll be retaking the complex within the week, I'm sure of it!"

Falks hadn't spoken since Tanith had met them at the gates and rushed them into this bunker below Sierra Fortress, and now finally ventured a word. "How many made it outta the complex?"

Her dark skin paled at that question. "Uh... well, it's not good."

"Might've known."

"The initial reports are guessing some 90 percent casualties. Guess a lot of people hunkered down in their offices and waited for the place to be retaken, probably didn't even last until the order to abandon the complex." Incredulous expressions passed between the refugees and Cossette found herself feeling slightly ill. _90 percent casualties... that's over 2,000 people!_

"Ya gotta be kiddin'," Ratchet whispered, his thoughts apparently going the same direction as his boss's.

"The count isn't _that_ accurate, mind. We got reports from the security shift on duty that the board's thugs had a lot of collaborators. Impossible to say how many, but we're guessing actual deaths closer to 70 percent."

Falks gave her a look that said, quite clearly, 70 percent dead and 20 percent traitors was not much better than 90 percent dead. Cossette had to agree.

Misty's frown hadn't left her face yet. "Then some others did run?"

"Yeah. News reports keep interviewing people who bailed, pretty much all the same story. Mostly thinking like you, fought their way out and didn't feel like camping in hostile territory. And wanted a change of scenery," she added, looking pointedly at Ratchet, who smirked.

Cossette could, to be honest, _not_ explain why they'd fled. Thinking back the decision had been both unanimous and obvious. But now... well, she supposed it didn't matter why. They'd been right. They were alive and together.

Except Jean-Paul.

And she realized, though it was a great blow to her pride, that this upset her very much.

* * *

The first thing he was aware of upon waking was that he was tied down. This fact immediately called forth every defiant reflex in his body, and he gave a rapid jerk of one arm to test the restraints before working out how best to get rid of them. 

To his surprise, he easily pulled free of the strip of cloth, and frowned. This was unexpected. This would call for some reconsideration... he shifted, trying to see if the other restraints were similarly crude.

"Oy, crazy! Don't do that, you'll hurt yourself."

He turned his head and saw a blond man looking at him with concern. He knew that man, he thought. _Yes. Lance_. The fog was slowly lifting from his mind and he was remembering how he'd gotten here, though for the life of him he could not understand why he felt no pain. Shock? He didn't think so. He ought to be cold and tired if he were in shock, he was pretty certain, and neither was true. Indeed, the room seemed very warm, and he was quickly gaining energy as sleep wore off.

Still, the fog his mind was wandering through worried him. "Lance... how long...?" That seemed like a good question.

"Two days, give or take a couple hours. You were a mess when you showed up. Did the best I could... had to tie you to the couch so you wouldn't move and re-open the wound. You seemed okay with it. Though, I think I may've shot you a little too full of painkillers."

The word 'painkiller' resonated in Jean-Paul's mind, and eventually he was able to figure out that must be causing the fog. But in the state he was in right now, he could hardly complain. "That's okay. Worked. Doesn't hurt."

Lance seemed to find this amusing.

Two days. That was a long time. Probably he hadn't been out the whole time, though he wondered. "Bad injury?"

"Not so bad, really. A lot of blood, but the actual hole in your side's pretty shallow. You didn't tell me how you got it, but I bet I can guess." He jerked his head in the direction of a muted holoscreen. "The attack on Cheyenne Mountain was all anyone talked about... for about a day... course now they're all talking about the war."

"War?" Jean-Paul repeated blankly.

"Well, the Mountain got shot up by people working for the board. Kreissack loyalists, they're saying. After taking out any resistance in the complex they came out and declared war on Shirro's new government. WAR declared it right back and said it wouldn't surrender to a bunch of old selfish relics... not in as many words, but it was pretty obvious what they meant."

Jean-Paul was coherent enough to be surprised. Shirro's leadership was proving to be a much greater improvement than he'd ever predicted. Well, other than the fact of plunging the company into civil war, but then... there was something to be said for WAR's troops working against each other instead of outsiders.

"Next thing you know we've got people pledging allegiance all over. Looks like a bunch of the competitors are taking the lead... Raven's got a group together who wants him in charge of WAR, and there's people agitating for Milano to press a claim, though he hasn't done it yet. And around midnight last night we got terrorist strikes on WAR facilities in Sydney."

"Australia?" He had a feeling he knew where that was going.

"Yep. The Devroe twins are claiming responsibility and saying they're gonna destroy the company in the name of justice."

This all took some time to sink in. If he was keeping track correctly—questionable in his hazy state, though things were gradually becoming clearer—that made four different groups vying for leadership of WAR, and one group that just wanted them all to die. He'd not thought the twins had it in them. Well, Christian certainly, but his sister apparently had more spine than Jean-Paul had thought. He grudgingly decided he was impressed.

"And all the national governments are okay with this?"

"Of course not. They've gone crazier than the company itself."

"How bad is it?"

Lance shrugged. "About what you'd expect. WAR-controlled territories are declaring war all over the place, except they don't know who they're declaring it on. Alaska's almost as messed up—the feds in Fairbanks released a statement that they aren't going to interfere, at about the same time the Juneau and Anchorage city governments offered sanctuary to anyone who's fighting to get rid of WAR."

"Wonderful. The other independents?"

"Katsushai's blowing things up already. I think they were on the ground in Honshu before the Japanamerican government even got word of the board's revolt."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Because you're a genius. Scandinavia wanted to stay out of it, but they said they'd blow apart any WAR unit that sets foot on their land. Greenland extended the same warning to both sides. Fourth Armada promptly invaded both of them for daring to threaten WAR, so now the company's missing a large chunk of HARs."

"And Switzerland is watching all of this..."

"...and going 'ha ha, ya'll suck!'"

"Of course they are."

The implications of this were all rather disturbing. But something else was taking priority, something... _Misty. Cossette. Kiowa_. He tried to stand and within moments Lance was there pushing him back down. "Come on Jay, you're smarter than that. You'll start bleeding again."

"I have to go... was supposed to meet someone..." Two damn days. "They probably think I'm dead by now."

"And you probably _will_ be if you don't sit and rest!"

"You're exaggerating."

His old friend sighed. "Okay, so I am. I'm just worried."

Jean-Paul frowned. Lance's admission came so easily and again he found he was jealous. _If I'm such a genius, why is it so hard for me to express these things?_ He hadn't even told Misty to take care of herself, though he'd wanted to. He'd not even told Cossette goodbye... even though, if he were honest with himself, it was for _her_ sake that he'd created the diversion and was lying here with a hole in his side in the first place.

Which was a new feeling in itself. While his goal of overthrowing WAR's corrupt regime could no doubt be considered selfless, he did not consider himself a particularly altruistic individual. Certainly the concept of possibly getting himself killed for _one person_, or even a handful of people, was something he would generally mock as far too idealistic... yet it was precisely what he'd done.

He looked up and saw Lance watching him with concern. "You okay?"

"I _have_ to go, Lance!" He barely recognized his own voice with such a pleading tone.

The man's blue eyes flickered with something he could not quite describe, and then he nodded and gave a low whistle. "Taiga! Tundra! C'mere! We're going for a ride."

* * *

Cossette no longer dreamed of the Nova. To an extent this surprised her—of course there was no need for those strange visions anymore, when the project was gone, but the actual battle with Kreissack had been a harrowing experience. Seeing it in her nightmares would not at all have surprised her. 

Of course, she wouldn't complain that she _didn't_.

Instead, she had dreamed of Angel. She wondered if the strange woman was alive. _Surely she must be. I wonder if she can die_. All the mysteries of who she was, what she had wanted... they were all gone now. Yet what had she said when she'd left?

Something about the masters of the moon called Ganymede...

It would explain so much...

The problem with allowing her thoughts to drift in this direction was that when she remembered the final encounter with Angel, she remembered Jean-Paul. And really, that bastard was the last person she wanted to be remembering now. Bad enough that every time she walked through the hangar, she had to see the crimson Shadow that Misty had brought in...

Why was she so angry at him? He'd quite probably saved her life... twice.

_He's still an arrogant prick._

_Surely an arrogant prick who saved your life is worth something._

_Worth being civil to if he were here. He's not._

_He's probably dead._

_Then I shouldn't be worrying about him._

_He's probably dead because he created a diversion so the rest of you could escape alive._

_So?_

_So you owe him some respect._

_Fine. If he'll stop barging unwanted into my thoughts, I won't think anything bad about him._

_You shouldn't lie to yourself._

_What's that supposed to mean?_

There was nothing in response, and she fell into an uneasy sleep. Within it she saw the corridor again, the corridor Angel had twisted. It was empty... only her and the gleaming crystals. She looked down, wondering if the thread was there as well, and saw it seeming to pulse with aqua light. She frowned. _Strange_.

For lack of anything better to do her eyes followed the thread along its course, as it shifted to green. On the other end it was connected to a human figure, and the green side also glowed faintly.

A human...

She remembered a day that felt like very long ago, and indeed, wasn't nine months a long time? A memory of a vision she'd had. Not a dream. The vision of Jean-Paul in the flames, where they had been bound by a thread.

She drew a long, steadying breath, and reached up and touched the glittering thread. Images flooded into her mind immediately and it took a great deal of willpower to keep her hand on the thread—but Cossette was nothing if not strong-willed. For a moment she was positive she would be trapped there, reliving every moment they had ever interacted.

_He's alive._

Abruptly she awoke. There was noise coming from outside her room. Conversation. If she was interpreting correctly, very surprised conversation... frowning, she dragged herself into her chair and wheeled out to see what was going on.

Tanith was leading someone into the main room. A man, with short blond hair, who was carrying a white cat and leading an orange tabby. She frowned in confusion, and then saw a second figure round the corner. A much taller man with fiery hair and green eyes.

She turned as quickly as she could and wheeled back into her room, unable to trust herself to stay.


	27. Modus Operandi

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 26: Modus Operandi

* * *

Milano stared out the window at the vast, empty expanse of Luna. The events of the last week were still very vague in his mind, but he had some confidence his father's agents had helped smuggle him to this place. But that couldn't explain all of it. A great many of his own people had also pitched in—and wasn't he standing in Echo Fortress, where _his_ security units for this sector were based?

Hadn't they treated him as a hero when he'd arrived?

He wondered if he was doing them a disservice by standing here in indecision. It was certainly clear what he had to do—and the sooner the better—if he really wanted to take his father's company back. Yet, he didn't want war. The conflict had already been far too costly...

_But the war is happening regardless of your wishes. Best to take advantage of it while it's been started by other forces, rather than sit back and plan a new coup which may be as bloody as this_.

"Sir." He raised his head but did not turn to face the speaker. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, Nielsen." The large man had simply _appeared_ to aid him in his escape from Cheyenne Mountain, and he was near the top of Milano's mental list of people his father had probably sent to keep an eye on him. While the thought irked him, he wasn't about to reject the extra help, especially not now. "I'm just thinking."

"About WAR?"

"Yes, about war." He let his fingertips brush the cool marble of the walls and wondered if Nielsen had understood. "Tell me of the situation here."

"Morale is high, especially now that you've arrived safely." A pause. "You requested that you not be pressed, sir, but I cannot answer your question without mentioning that a great many of the soldiers are expecting you to enter the war any day now."

"And would this be a good thing?"

"They believe you would bring sanity to this world gone mad. Many outside of this fortress are already fighting on your behalf... and that is only those who've met you and know no more than your record as head of security for WAR." Nielsen's reflection crossed his arms and stared pointedly at Milano. "And I will not lie to you, sir, I believe your support would double if your true name were revealed."

Milano was surprised at the man's audacity in making such a statement, if not so surprised at his knowledge. "And if I do not want to make such a revelation yet?"

"That is, of course, your prerogative."

"Of course." His dark eyes narrowed as he stared at the reflection in the window. "I do not want to demand respect based on a name, Nielsen. The company is my birthright, but my intent was always to _earn_ leadership. Birthrights, by definition, are not earned."

"This is true."

"If I do not reveal my name, what do you suppose my chances are?"

There was a long pause as his ally considered this. "Good, I should think. Many are understandably tired of Kreissack's rule, and the board would do nothing differently from their former master. Raven is not a much better alternative. Shirro has shown admirable initiative in attempting to reform, but his actions will be blamed for starting this war. Even if he wins his authority will be sorely diminished."

The former security chief nodded. He had come to those conclusions himself. "And the Devroes, the Avenger Guard?"

"They appeal to many, but destruction is not a policy."

"You'd be surprised." For the first time he turned and studied Nielsen with a calculating gaze. "Other factions with similar ideas are springing up."

"Yes, sir. Popular terminology seems to dub them all Demolitionists, while those who fight to keep WAR alive and rule it are collectively called Loyalists. Even the names have distinct connotations. Is not loyalty better than demolition?"

"Again, that isn't an assumption we can make. It depends on who or what the loyalty is pledged to." He sighed. If he entered, he was sentencing a great many fine warriors to death. But if he attempted to remain neutral, they would probably take other sides, or be attacked simply for _being there_. He decided to change the subject. "How many agents has my father planted on me, then?"

"Only myself and Sanna. He was content to sit back and watch your achievements, but after the tournament he was concerned for the future and asked us to shadow you for a time. I am certain he was not expecting _this_."

"No, I imagine not." Milano ran his fingers through his hair and sighed deeply. He supposed the surveillance could have been much worse. "What will he do if I choose to make a claim for WAR's leadership?"

"He will support you, of course, but only as you request it."

It was clear, he decided finally. "Then I must act." Perhaps he was being selfish by not revealing his identity when it could shorten the war... but he had no use for sycophants who followed a name, and this way there would be no false expectations. "I will address the troops here tonight. With their support, I will enter this madness."

Much to his credit, Nielsen responded only with a grave nod. Had he seemed pleased at the decision, Milano suspected he would have shot the man where he stood. _There should never be pleasure in war_.

* * *

"We need a plan."

"Split up an' search fer clues?"

"You're not as funny as you think you are."

"Oh c'mon she-demon, ya know ya love it."

"Did I miss something here?"

"Probably."

"Oh. Okay."

"Um, guys? I know I'm just a spectator here, but I'm pretty sure this is not a plan."

Tanith leaned back with her hands behind her head and frowned. "Well, seems like _our_ official plan is to sit back and do nothing. Shirro still wants us staying out of it, he's using all WAR regulars right now. The toppers say he's just doing it to force his people to declare their loyalties, but..." She shrugged. "The Fist's getting itchy."

Misty nodded. "The news reports yesterday said Epsilon Outpost defected to Milano as soon as he joined the war."

"They're probably not the only ones. We're losing people left and right." Tanith sounded disgusted. "You can't just keep the Fist out of this, and if you try they'll just go out and blow things up on their own. I can't believe the toppers haven't figured that out."

There was a long pause as they considered matters, then Jean-Paul spoke. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm fighting... against WAR."

"Avenger Guard?"

"Oh please. Someone has to fix what those imbeciles screw up." He shook his head. "The twins are all venom and no vision. WAR's destruction is entirely too important a goal to leave it in _their_ hands."

"Slow down." Falks had been quiet, again. Cossette thought he was probably feeling quite a bit out of his depth here—though not as much as Lance, who was at least managing to crack a few jokes. "Who said anything about _destroying_ WAR?"

"I did."

"Why in the world do we want to do that?"

"Because the company is too corrupt for its own good—or much of anyone else's, except for the few at the very top." Jean-Paul crossed his arms and leaned forward. "Maybe Shirro can win, and implement his reforms, and we'll all be happy for the next twenty years or so. Then some other mental ward reject like Kreissack comes along and reverses everything, and where does that leave us?"

Falks frowned. "You look at this so cynically."

"Why shouldn't I?" Something very dark passed over Jean-Paul's face and Cossette was startled. _His quarrel with WAR is something personal._ "You can't stop power from corrupting, Falks. So you have to stop power from being concentrated in the first place."

Tanith glanced at him. "You sound like one of the nationalists back during the Restructuring."

Shrug. "There's worse people to agree with, considering it looks like they were _right_..."

"He's gotta point," Ratchet chimed in, heading off a political debate which could not possibly go anywhere pleasant. "We get ridda WAR, we probably ain't gotta worry about more looneys stickin' their heads in HARs and declarin' 'emselves emperors or whatever. Least not anytime soon." He shrugged.

Misty frowned. "I've never been a great fan of the company. I don't think I ever would've started this war, but as it's going anyway... I'm sure I don't like anyone who's fighting for control, so... sure, let's wreck the place." A weak grin. "Besides, I'm with Ratchet, the world is much better if crazy people keep their body parts out of our machines."

Cossette considered matters for a few moments. Only a few. Much like Misty, she had never particularly _liked_ WAR. (Most people didn't.) The idea of backing the board was outright disgusting after the way they'd shot up Cheyenne Mountain. Raven would probably be worse than Kreissack ever had. Shirro had started this whole mess with his lack of forethought, and she didn't know what the hell Milano thought he was doing... which pretty much left her with either neutrality or the Demolitionists.

Neutrality was boring, and the others _were_ making convincing arguments. "If we're going to war with the company, I'm game."

"I'd fight on behalf of the Tooth Fairy right now," Tanith grumbled, "just get me in the action!"

Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow. "Now you sound like a mercenary."

"I _am_ a mercenary, brainiac."

"...Okay, good point."

Falks still looked uneasy and turned to Lance as if pleading for backup. The blond man shook his head. "I'm not a fighter. But I don't like WAR, and I'll help, if there's something I can do. I'd feel guilty if I just sat out." He exchanged significant looks with Jean-Paul as he said this. "The company deserves what it's getting right now. That's really all I can say."

There was a deep sigh as Falks seemed to realize he was outvoted. "We ain't gonna force ya t' fight, engineer man," Ratchet offered. "Don' think we are, anyhoo..."

"No, it's okay." He smiled. "Maybe you're all right about this. I'll come along for the ride."

"You sure?" Cossette asked, somewhat concerned. Pressing him into service was no better than something WAR might do... but he nodded and gave them a thumbs-up. "It's settled then."

There was a long pause as the seven looked at each other, then Misty shifted. "So it's settled. Now what?"

"I say we head for Xi Outpost on Luna," Tanith suggested immediately. "The Fist's got half a HAR division there now. Rumor says a lot of them are thinking about defecting to the Avengers, but I bet we can get them on our side instead."

"Half a division?" Falks repeated. "Damn. Nice."

Cossette frowned. There was one slight issue with that plan. Namely, Luna was a pretty good distance away from Colorado. "How are we planning to get there?"

Tanith looked insulted. "Oh c'mon, Cossette. Surely you aren't trying to tell me you think I can't scrounge up a sympathetic transport crew?"

* * *

Jean-Paul paced in his quarters aboard the Iron Fist transport, his steps becoming faster as his agitation increased. _This is ridiculous. Get a grip_. That was much easier said than done, and his mental snarling at himself wasn't really doing the trick.

He had to talk to her. No, what was he thinking? How _dare_ he even dream of showing himself in her presence... well, he'd already done that, of course. There wasn't much of a choice. But surely she wouldn't want to hear from him if she didn't have to, and it was very difficult to blame her.

_Yes. The two of us have just agreed to work together against the greatest empire ever built, but we'll never actually have to talk to each other in the process._

A shiver ran through him. He was not cold—he did not get cold. Then why was he shivering? Scowling, he pulled his windbreaker tighter around him, and wondered... his hand touched something, a loose thread poking from the lining.

A thread of emerald green.

Before he even fully registered the strangled cry that escaped him, he was running, the corridors flying by as he sought out... yes, there... then he was standing in front of her door and a dull ache in his knuckles told him he must have knocked, though he hadn't actually been paying that much attention.

"Just come in, door's open!"

_Oh, she'll regret that._

Sure enough, the expression on Cossette's face when he slipped through the door was one of perfect shock. He felt bad. Why did he feel bad? It was her damned idea to tell him to _just come in_ in the first place. For a long time, they stared at each other, and then he leaned back against the door and slid down until he sat just below her eye level. "Hello." It was the only word he could force out of his mouth.

She was recovering from her surprise, and her expression slowly shifted to one of curiosity. "Hello." Her tone was guarded. Perhaps she thought he was slightly crazy. Perhaps he was. "...What do you want?"

He was surprised she did not tell him to leave. If he didn't find words she probably _would_ soon enough, but the words just refused to come... it was horribly frustrating. "I wish I knew."

Nodding, she wheeled slightly closer. "How's your side?"

"Better." Yes. He could answer that. That was easy. _Enough easy. You know what you came here for_. "Cossette..."

"Yes?"

"I..." His voice caught in his throat. _Dammit! This isn't that difficult. Go on you idiot, say it and get out of here_. He leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't have to look at her. Yes, he was calming slightly already, and he managed to force out the ragged whisper, though it felt like a million razor blades tearing at his throat. "...I was wrong."

It was the first time in his life he had ever spoken such words. He wondered if she understood the significance. Was there something in his voice to give it away? He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see her expression, and knew it would also hide the pain in his own eyes. _I was wrong_. Three words that shattered his entire persona.

"No."

_That_ got him to look at her. "What do you mean... no?"

"I mean you were right." There was a strange expression on her face. "When you sent me away because of... our alliance... you said it had become something more. I eventually realized...you were right." She looked down at her hand. "When we last saw Angel. There was a thread between us... I didn't know what it meant until we split up, and I thought you were dead." The admission seemed to pain her. "But I had another dream. I saw the thread again and I just... _knew_ you were alive."

He stared. She had also seen the thread? _Of course. Angel said the visions originated with Cossette. She _must_ have seen it_. "I saw the thread," he said finally. "That was why... what made me tell you to leave. I..." No. He'd said quite enough. He wasn't about to tell her he had been afraid. He could not go that far!

"I understand."

Blink. "You what?"

"You're having a difficult time with this, aren't you?" she asked with a faint smile. "I said I understand. You're allowed to be confused. Hell, I know I was." A frown. "Maybe I still am, but I don't think I blame you... I mean, you were a bastard... but you weren't even very good at that. I figured out on my own that you didn't really mean it."

Had he been that obvious? Or was he trying to be? He shook his head and just let the words wash over him, deciding he could try to make sense of it all later. "Don't say that." He almost felt cheated that she did not rage at him, after all he'd done for the sake of making her angry. It shouldn't be this easy. He should be _punished_. "Don't try to make it sound forgivable."

"But it is." Cossette wheeled a bit closer. "I don't know if I've quite forgiven you yet. But I'm certain I can." She smiled. "I'm certain I will."

There were no words for this. He stood, a little too quickly. "I have to go." And he went, sprinting through the corridors again, but this time acutely aware of what he was doing and what thoughts were running through his head.

It only occurred to him when he reached his room that she had claimed she would forgive him, but he had not actually apologized. This seemed uncharacteristic of Cossette... and she'd agreed with him that the alliance was more... and she'd seen the thread... and all that could mean was...

_Oh god_. He dropped onto his bed and stared blankly at the wall. _If this... feeling... is mutual, I don't think my sanity is going to survive this war_.


	28. Battle Lines

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 27: Battle Lines

* * *

Xi Outpost was a bit strange, as outposts on Luna went. Typical lunar structures were, much like typical Earth structures, built on top of the ground. Xi was almost completely beneath it, which was no small accomplishment considering Luna's rocky crust. The base was ideal for this battle—hardened against any aerial strike, possessing a good-sized HAR hangar, and housing troops who outright hated WAR.

The story didn't take long to come out. Xi was near the facility which had been used for the Nova Project, and nearly all of the project's security detail had come from this unit... and all of that security detail had been brutally murdered by the Nova as it emerged. Rather than simply hating Kreissack for the slaughter, the comrades of those killed had gained a virulent hatred for the entire company which had developed such a monster.

Perfect for their purposes.

And that very anger which made them so perfect for the cause was, no doubt, why Lance felt so uneasy walking these corridors. It surprised him how easily the Iron Fist warriors seemed to have accepted them, until he discovered they were not the first refugees to come here. A great many opponents of WAR had fled to the outpost when the nearby Artemis colony was taken over by Kreissack loyalists.

Taiga and Tundra walked at his sides like guard cats, uneasy in this new place. Two days in they were already being treated as mascots by much of the base personnel—by some strange coincidence, the 45th Division stationed here was known as the Hell Cats.

Had been, anyway. Now they were calling themselves the Hellrazers, and judging by their invective, they had every intention of razing the hell WAR had built.

Lance did not care. No, he really couldn't give a damn what happened to the company, and if it fell he would shed no tears. He, just like Jay, had grown up in Alaska under the dark specter of an attack by WAR. Of course he'd eventually left the country, and fears of a full-scale attack gave way to constant vigilance against agents coming to his door to 'detain' a possible security risk. Now that war had started, all that fear was giving way to a quiet, simmering anger that seemed to grow more powerful with every news report, every casualty.

Perhaps he was not a warrior, not like Jay and his friends. But Lance had the heart of an Alaskan—of any native of an independent nation, really. He wasn't just going to sit back and watch.

So now he was striding confidently towards the hangar. The Hellrazers had more machines than pilots—many of the ground troopers the Nova had killed were usually HAR jocks. The commander of the unit, a Major Donovan, had suggested he try out in one of the extra machines. And that's what he would do.

No, Lance Vernon wasn't a warrior _now_. But he was determined to become one.

* * *

Jean-Paul had always heard, from people who actually did this as their day job, that operating in a city was the worst fear of a HAR pilot. It wasn't so bad for someone who piloted one of the six-foot-tall Chronos models commonly found in hospitals, of course... but a 90-foot HAR storming through civilian areas was a disaster just waiting to happen. The fact that such things almost never _did_ happen was irrelevant to the occupational paranoia.

He was rapidly developing that phobia himself. He was certain the Shadow looked as nervous as he felt as the massive machine picked its way through the Artemis colony's streets. It didn't much help matters that here, on the outskirts, there were no buildings even approaching the height of a HAR. He could look to his right and see Cossette's Electra matching his path three blocks away.

Fortunately, the civilians had opted to take cover in their houses the instant the first HARs appeared. Were it not for the creeping fear, he could've broken into a run with little danger to anyone on the outside. But he didn't. Low risk was still too risky. And he knew Kreissack's people would not care much for their sheep when the battle was joined, so the Hellrazers unit would have to be doubly cautious.

This had started almost the minute they'd landed at Xi. In fact, the 45th had been planning the op since Artemis was taken, three days after the board's revolt. 'Taken' might not be the proper word—rumor had it the board's troops had been invited in—but regardless of how they'd entered the city, it was important that they exit as soon as possible.

About the time they entered the core of the city, a burst of static sounded in his ears. "First Team is in position," a voice he didn't recognize announced. "Everyone else check in." First Team was made of flying HARs—mostly Gargoyles, but a few Pyros thrown in for good measure. The idea was that they would strike first from the air, distracting the forces around the loyalist headquarters so they wouldn't notice the ground units incoming from the edges of the city.

Jean-Paul personally felt it was stupid to expect them to not notice incoming HARs, regardless of how busy they were, but he hadn't bothered to say so. He'd never actually been in large-scale combat before. (Neither had most of the Iron Fist jocks, but at least they _trained_ for this.)

"Fourth Team is on schedule," Cossette reported. The two former tournament fighters were really only a token force, heading in from the north to prevent loyalist forces from escaping the much larger team to the south.

"Third Team's good."

"Fifth Team on target."

"Second Team's running behind." Damn. That was the south force, and the main assault team. "Victor had a leg lock up on him."

"Just leave him there," First Team's leader ordered immediately. "Post a guard if you need to, but we can't stay here for much longer without being detected."

"Yessir."

"How far behind are you?"

"Less than five minutes."

"Not too bad. We're going in."

A crackling of static heralded a new comm channel opening. "Should we wait a minute? No sense getting there before Second."

He looked over at Cossette's machine and nodded. For a minute, perhaps two, they simply stood in the streets and listened to comms chatter between the HARs already in combat. Then he heard something else, a low, insistent clicking. It took a moment to identify the alarm, but then Shadow was kind enough to display a warning on his screen.

_Detected: Trinitrotoluene unknown quantities_.

"...You're kidding."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing much. Just high explosives in the vicinity."

Her sardonic tone matched his. "Oh, is that all? Where?"

"Not sure." He called for a scan, though his gut feeling told him he didn't have time to complete it. "East of me if you're not picking it up." Fortunately, they'd chosen to stop along a major east-west route, allowing him to pitch to his right without crashing into anything.

To his great shock, the scan completed, laying a bright red square over the satellite map in the upper corner of his vision. Then another. Then a third. "Oh boy." He didn't bother trying to identify any of the buildings, which was probably just as well, and switched over to general comms. "Everyone watch it, they've set up—"

He didn't get the warning out as the TNT all went off at once, the shock waves still quite sufficient to fling the Shadow—and the Electra, come to that—several blocks away. From here he could see explosions to the west as well.

"Are they INSANE?" Cossette yelled, scrambling to regain her feet.

"They're Kreissack loyalists. Does that answer your question?"

That exchange was only one in dozens of shocked outbursts over the general channel, which were rapidly silenced by First Team's leader. "SHUT UP! Keep the channel clear, bitch about it with your own team. Team leaders report in. Base, what can you see?"

"Third Team lost two HARs, a few more banged up, but we're good."

"Fourth Team, shook up but here."

"Same for Fifth."

There was a pause where Second _should_ have reported, just long enough to be uncomfortable before the base's report came through. "We picked up at least two dozen explosions throughout the city, along all major routes to the loyalist headquarters." That was Misty, who'd demanded to be allowed to do _something_ and ended up in charge of communications. "Looks like they were triggered a bit late in most cases."

The implications hung heavy in the air for a moment, and First's leader tried to sound nonchalant. "Base, can you get Second Team on radar? They aren't reporting in."

A pause. "Most of Second Team has awakened safely back here, but you'll have one hell of a job salvaging their machines." Any response was overridden by cursing in the background, then, "Enemy HARs incoming from the north. Looks like a full battalion."

Jean-Paul cursed and took a moment to orient himself. A battalion... two hundred HARs. The Hellrazers had dispatched fifty, to deal with an estimated two companies—twenty machines—in the loyalist base, and almost half of those had just been blown into scrap metal.

_Nothing good can come of this_.

* * *

Angel moved slowly into the depths of the great cavern which held Ar'tanne, the largest Tanmari city. She had been back on Tanmir for quite some time now, but had not reported to the Elders yet. She could simply report over the Grid, of course... but it would show greater respect to be physically present, and really, she needed to show as much respect as possible, considering the results of her mission.

They were waiting for her, though she had not indicated she planned to visit. The Elders were wise, and powerful with the Ability. Of course they would know she was coming, and no doubt they had some idea of what she had to report.

She had chosen to enter in her human guise. As she'd walked through Ar'tanne, she had heard the whispers on the Grid, from those who knew only that she was an emissary of the Elders. They did not know of her mission, her failure, and she drew some strength from their curiosity and respect. Now, entering the chamber of the Elders, she gave a human-style bow as well as the appropriate respectful thoughts over the Grid. _I have come to give my report._

_We have been expecting you. Proceed_.

The High Elder's tone was stern, but Angel sensed no anger and took some heart from that fact. _My primary objective was a failure. I could not prevail in the human tournament_. She had, of course, made it to the final round, but surely such half-victories were unworthy of mention. _I further failed by misinterpreting a human dream, allowing myself to be distracted from my mission chasing a threat that did not exist_. She paused for a moment, realizing as she reported that the operation had been even a greater failure than she'd thought. _I did complete the secondary objective of observing human behaviors. However, as they lack any centralized force equivalent to our Grid, only the broadest of generalizations can be made._

One of the Elders was radiating positive, if not particularly approving, thoughts, and spoke next. _What was the situation when you left the territory of the humans?_

_They had fallen into war with themselves. The conflict had consumed their great company, and they seem to have forgotten our moon in the face of their new situation. I felt I could be of little use in such a war, and so returned here_.

_You were wise, young one. Tanmari are not meant for the human manner of conflict_. Despite the encouraging statement, this Elder's thoughts were clearly disapproving. _While we had hoped for much more from your mission, we cannot ask of you more than your own capabilities allow._

_That is so_. The High Elder's tone remained stern, but Angel sensed this was directed more at the other Elders than herself. _And because of that, we cannot fault you for failing in your primary mission, victory in the human tournament. All the power of the Ability is no substitute for strength on the physical plane. Despite your defeat, your endeavors honor the Tanmari_. Angel looked up, startled. _The matter of the Nova Project, which distracted you from your goal, is of concern, yet you showed great discipline in following our orders to let it be. We censure you for your indiscretion, 695342 called Angel, but not harshly_.

It took her a long time to find words, but she had no doubt the Elders could feel her thoughts as they tumbled about in disarray. _My life is to serve the Tanmari, the Grid, and the Ability. What would you have me do to atone for my errors?_

The disapproving Elder spoke. _You spent much time with the humans, and learned their ways. We still have need for such knowledge._ _Are you prepared to leave Tanmir once more, in defense of the Grid?_

Angel sensed an immediate backlash of negative thoughts towards the Elder from the others, but nodded before any objections could be raised. _I am so prepared_. It would almost be worth it to get away from the Tanmari, to not have to detail her failure to others...

The High Elder spoke once more. _It is cruelty itself to ask that you spend still more time far from the Grid, but if you are willing... select a small team to accompany you back to human space. Share with them your knowledge of the humans, and enter their war. Ensure that when the conflict is over, there will be no further threat to our moon_.

Angel nodded. _It will be done_.

* * *

_Okay, so the world's gone nuts and I'm in the middle of it. I thought I got rid of all these hero fantasies back in third grade?_

Lance's Jaguar stumbled as it ran, irritating him, though it probably shouldn't have. The debris that had at one point been a road was giving the others just as much trouble. Besides, he had a few problems with the HAR, but the basic operation of _walking_ was not one of them. Yet, he was definitely the rookie here, and he had confidence that his every move was being carefully scrutinized...

"All right there, Catman?" Tanith inquired as her boxy Omega came up beside him, gliding several feet above the ground on its gravity fields rather than having to navigate the wreckage.

Lance sighed—he had tried, for awhile, to shake the new nickname, but he'd finally given up. "Better than the loyalists are about to be."

"They _were_ pretty thorough."

He supposed 'thorough' was one way to put it. "They practically destroyed their own city. For what?"

"My best guess is they knew we'd be coming for them eventually, and figured this'd be easier than storming our fortress." The Omega shook its head. "They won't get too far with tactics like these."

"You'd be surprised." Lance decided to drop the matter, but he knew how many nations WAR had taken under its power through the mere threat of force—such things were extensively covered in history courses back home, proof of how lucky Alaska was to be one of the few independent nations... "I'm starting to get radar contacts."

"Lucky. I'll see 'em when we're in punching distance."

Lance shot her a curious look. Omega wasn't usually a combat HAR, but he would've thought Iron Fist would refit their own machines with military-grade sensors. No time to worry about that right now. Checking his radar more carefully, he observed far too many enemy icons, far too few intact friendlies. "Doesn't look too good."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Then there was no more time to talk, because they—along with all of the 45th's Gamma Battalion—were falling on the enemy. Lance sighted with his concussion cannon and sent two blasts of energy tearing into a loyalist Pyros. Almost immediately the HAR turned on him and responded with great gouts of flame, then rocketed forward to follow up with a physical assault. The force of the hit send the Jaguar airborne, tearing through two buildings before coming to a halt on the ground.

_There's not going to be anything left of this city by the time this battle's over_...

It occurred to him that, perhaps, that was exactly what the loyalists had wanted.

* * *

"...opening a new front in the war, forces from the demolitionist faction calling themselves the Hellrazers struck at Artemis today. Several large explosions, probably Hellrazer artillery strikes, were reported in the city prior to a battalion of HARs moving in. The loyalists headquartered in the colony were unable to fight off the assault, which resulted in the nearly complete destruction of the city as large-scale HAR combat was seen for the first time in the war..."

Tanith slammed her fist on the table in disgust. "ARTILLERY STRIKES? Since-effing-when?" She switched off the holoscreen. "Sorry, guys, but I don't have the stomach to see them interviewing the survivors for their sickening sob stories about how life was perfect until the big bad DEMOLITIONISTS came and ruined everything..."

Cossette was silent. The victory had come at a terrible cost for the Hellrazers—only about thirty of the HARs they'd sent in had been left standing at the end of the fight. The board had forced them to destroy the defending forces down to the last machine. _It was stupid to attack them in a civilian area_. That was a given, but the alternative had been to let the loyalists operate out of the colony with impunity.

She'd understood the leadership's stated logic, as well—an early surgical strike at the loyalist headquarters could eliminate the threat with relatively little damage elsewhere. Letting them reinforce and use Artemis as a staging point would eventually lead to angry, thoughtless retaliatory strikes, and massive loss of life.

Good logic, if one assumed the board wasn't willing to blow up their own stronghold for a propaganda victory, in which case massive loss of life was the result anyway.

Silence reigned in the room for a long while. There were only four of them there: herself, Tanith, Lance, and Jean-Paul. Falks was locked in his quarters, shaken by what had happened. Misty and Ratchet had more than enough to do repairing HARs—though, neither Cossette nor Jean-Paul's machines had been taken down in the fighting. No small accomplishment in such a battle, but...

"They didn't even mention our first wave, or that the fight had already started when the explosions went off... shouldn't we be trying to get our side out?" Lance asked finally. "I mean, _we_ know that 'news' coverage was complete crap."

"And what are we going to say?" Jean-Paul asked tiredly. "Sure, we decided to attack them in the middle of a city, but we didn't expect anyone to get _hurt!_ ...That won't work."

Lance frowned. "Have you seen the feed?"

"I was there, I saw what happened. Why do I need to see it again?"

Tanith shook her head. "Catman's right. You probably wouldn't have noticed from the ground, but on overhead sensors it's obvious. When they split up near the end, they were pretty clearly going for the places that _hadn't_ been wrecked yet. If they'd just run out the paths that were already destroyed, there might not have even been half the casualties."

"But we followed them."

"They were shooting at us!"

"So?"

His question hung in the air, uncomfortable and challenging. Lance finally took a stab at it. "So we had to fight back."

"Lance, we _started_ the fight. That's all anyone's going to see." Jean-Paul stood and headed for the door. "If the rest of you want to sit here and sulk about how the WAR-funded media isn't being nice to people who want WAR wiped out, that's your business... I'm going to go help with repairs."

Cossette shook her head as they watched him leave. "Here," she offered, "let me translate than from asshole language."

"By all means do."

"We aren't going to get the media on our side by complaining about them, so let's shut up and do what _will_ change their minds."

"And what's that?"

"Win."

Tanith arched an eyebrow. "I like the way he thinks."


	29. Tears of Ice

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 28: Tears of Ice

* * *

Cossette wheeled out of Xi Outpost into Luna's still and silent air. While it was good that they had such a reliable core of allies, the atmosphere in the building could be a bit oppressive at times. Especially when the news was on—if anything the spin had gotten worse as the war intensified.

Besides, she was looking for someone.

He wasn't particularly difficult to find, sprawled out on a small rise and gazing up at the stars. The rough ground of Luna was not easy for her chair to navigate, but she managed. "Jean-Paul."

"Hello." He didn't look at her. "Problem?"

"No, I just wanted to talk."

He gave a noncommittal sort of grunt. "Talk?"

"You know, have a conversation, communicate via words which are released from the mouth by—"

"Okay, shut up." He turned. "What's on your mind?"

"I was actually wondering what's on yours."

She was pushing her luck here, she knew that well. After his bizarre quasi-apology aboard the transport they'd kept to a strictly professional relationship, though she kept catching glances from him when he thought she wasn't looking. And she had to admit, she'd caught him mostly because she was looking at _him_. But that was still kind of circumstantial evidence... and not enough to justify what she was about to ask him.

It was a bit of a personal question. And Jean-Paul did not like those.

Now he was frowning. "You're going to have to narrow it down, you know. Even if I wanted to it would take me a very long time to list everything that's on my mind."

"True." She wheeled closer. "I'd like to know why you hate WAR so much."

"Doesn't everyone hate WAR? Media aside."

"You seem to hate it more than most."

He gave her a cold, calculating look. "Do I have to have a reason?"

"Of course not." She wasn't quite ready to back down. "I'm curious, that's all. I'd like to know something more about you, and it's not like you let anything slip on your own."

"Hmm..." He turned over and rested his head on his hands, staring straight up into the sky. "It's not that big a deal. Alaskans really don't like WAR. That's all."

Her eyes widened. _Alaskan? He can't be! Kreissack wouldn't have let someone from one of the independents fight in that tournament! ...Well he let Angel fight, but the way she went around messing with peoples' heads..._ Something about the statement didn't add up, even assuming Kreissack would put someone from an independent nation in such a prestigious position. "That's true. But don't they usually dislike WAR so much they stay home instead of joining the company?"

It had been an innocent question, but from the way he bolted up and glared at her, she might have asked if Alaskans routinely drank the blood of innocent kittens. "When given the _choice_, yes we do." His eyes blazed. "For someone who explodes at the slightest insult, you certainly don't pay much attention to _your_ manners."

Cossette chose to ignore any abuse he might throw at her, considering he'd shown up in her room utterly mortified by the last time he'd tried to make her angry. "It was just a question."

"It wasn't a very good one!" He turned away.

Well, she'd botched _that_. "Jean-Paul..."

"Go away."

"Oh, grow up. You know I didn't mean to offend you." She could see how tense he was, as if he might snap at any moment. _I really hit a nerve_. Then the first part of his statement struck her. _When given the choice?_ "What forced you to come, then?"

Silence. Then, very softly, "I do not speak of that."

She tried to decide how badly she wanted to know. On one hand, it wasn't really a god idea to keep provoking him... not to mention it was not nice. Of course she wasn't sure _nice_ was even in his vocabulary. And what little he'd told her only made him even harder to understand... "Please tell me."

He looked startled as he turned to her again. "Why are you so worried about it?"

"I don't really know."

"The thread," he said quietly. She frowned. That seemed to make a great deal of sense, now that he mentioned it. "I don't like this, Cossette... but I will tell you." There was resignation in his voice. "I wonder if I have a choice."

"Of course you have a choice!"

"No." He shook his head. "I would have to tell you eventually." Their eyes met, and there was something almost gentle hidden within that cold emerald. Even noticing this, his next words startled her. "Perhaps if you know the truth we can end this game before it begins..." Cossette doubted that, but opted not to say so at the moment. "It's a bit of a long story though."

"That's fine."

He stood and gestured for her to follow him back into the base. "Not out here."

* * *

Steffan was sitting in his room watching the news, finally starting to get over the destruction of Artemis as new battles were beginning. There wasn't much else for him _to_ do right now, really. The doctors had suggested that he not jack into a HAR for at least a month or two unless necessary, as the neural shock from his Chronos' destruction had hit him pretty hard... it was annoying, but he supposed it beat jacking in and having his mind ripped apart.

He'd not had to _escape_ from Cheyenne Mountain—the attackers had treated him with the utmost deference. Of course they ought to. His parents were on the board, after all. That was how he'd ended up back in Iolo with little difficulty...

To do what? Sit around playing video games and keeping his eyes glued to the holoscreen. Not that he was complaining, but he was getting a bit bored.

The news wasn't so good for Kreissack's loyalists, which was also not good for him. The different loyalist factions were tearing each other up, and the various demolitionist groups—especially the Avenger Guard and that new faction right here on Luna—were taking a toll on WAR's facilities. Even against the loyalists they were not faring so well—many who had supported Kreissack were still flocking to Raven, who perhaps seemed a stronger leader than a group of the company's aging elite.

The door opened and his father walked in. "Hey, 'sup Dad?"

His father's expression was grave. "Son... I don't like this, but the rest of the board thinks you would be suited for the job, so your mother thinks you should at least come talk to them. There's something they think you can... contribute to the war effort."

Steffan arched an eyebrow and stood. This sounded promising. Maybe he wasn't meant to be sentenced to boredom after all. "What do they want?"

"I think I'd rather let them tell you that..."

For a moment, Steffan was worried. But he shrugged it off.

* * *

"I suppose there's no point in asking if you know anything of Alaskan history."

"No, not really."

Jean-Paul was sprawled on his bed, fixing Cossette with a cool but not entirely hostile gaze. "Then we'll start at the beginning. After the Restructuring, the state was tacked onto Canada—apparently this made geographic sense." His tone made it very clear what he thought of _that_ idea. "This didn't go over too well with much of anyone. So, the governor dispatched the whole Alaskan National Guard to the border with Canada and threatened a war of secession."

"That's insane! They actually _wanted_ a war with Canada?"

"Well, no." He smirked. "But the Canadians didn't exactly want Alaska either, so they just shrugged and said to go away and leave them alone. About two days later Katsushai started blowing things up to get out of Japanamerica, so I'm sure the Canadian government felt good about themselves."

Cossette flinched. She'd grown up in Japanamerica herself, and history classes had not withheld many details of the brutal Katsushai Revolution. "No doubt."

"The problem was, he was counting on the war—after Miami was razed in World War 3, a lot of people from the old United States bolted to Alaska because it was about as far away from _everything_ as they could get. Apparently nobody predicted that Alaska was going to turn into its own country and have to actually do something permanent about all the refugees..." He sighed. "So with the Canadians not interested in a fight, the governor—now the president—needed a new enemy to unite the country against. He chose WAR."

She frowned. "But right after the Restructuring?" Admittedly, even WAR history was not her strongest point, but she was pretty certain WAR had only started gaining true power after Kreissack joined the board. "Wasn't he about seven years early?"

"Maybe he had some foresight. Not something I worry about." His dark tone convinced her to drop the subject. "In any case, all WAR presence was kicked out of Alaska by 2050. Kreissack was getting stronger, and he didn't like that."

"I'd imagine not."

"So he tried to declare war. Of course he never actually attacked... Wright and Angston were against it, and even after they left the company, nothing in our little icebox was really worth the money he'd have to spend on that war." He laughed bitterly. "He did, however, also swear personal enmity against the President who kicked WAR out in the first place." His emerald eyes lifted to meet Cossette's gaze. "His name was Ryan Delaney."

This took a few moments for her to grasp, then she stared at Jean-Paul Delaney in growing comprehension. "Your...?"

"Grandfather." He closed his eyes. "He was untouchable in Alaska. The rest of his family, not so much. By the time he stepped down from the presidency, WAR was still officially banned—still is now, come to that—but the company had managed to sneak a few agents in. Not highly placed, but it was enough. His daughter was assassinated, and his son gained a paranoid fear that WAR was watching him from every shadow."

"Probably was."

"Maybe." He fell silent for a long time. She sensed no sadness in the young man, only growing anger as his story progressed. "He got married—god only knows how he pulled that off—and his wife picked up the same paranoia. Then she went off and made the rather large mistake of getting pregnant."

Cossette grimaced. "Isn't _mistake_ a little harsh? Surely they never told you that."

His voice became colder than the grave. "They didn't have to. They found out their four year old kid was raiding their bookshelves and understanding what he read, shoved him through a year of nonstop testing, and realized they had an almost unbelievable genius on their hands. And what do you do with a toddler who's smarter than you are? You sell him to your worst enemy for political capital."

She choked on her next breath and took a moment to recover from the coughing fit. "They _what?"_ He was silent, and for a long time they simply sat there. Jean-Paul was not looking at her, but she found she could not tear her eyes from him. _My god. No wonder..._ it certainly explained the rage that seemed to boil within him, lurking just beneath his calm exterior. "I..." The matter seemed to defy words.

"As a final insult, Kreissack decided I should be raised in Alaska, and sent two agents to take care of it. They were not pleased with the assignment. I was treated accordingly. Understandably, their attempts at indoctrination did not go very well." He spoke tonelessly now. "WAR officially hired me as soon as I was of legal working age, though I remained in Alaska until leaving college—I refused to skip any grades, mostly to spite my keepers. And here I am."

She felt he was leaving out a rather large chunk of the story. But it could wait... no, she thought as she met his eyes for a moment. There was one other thing. "What happened to your parents? Did Kreissack keep his word?"

"I believe so. No matter. They're dead now." That same emotionless voice... it was frightening. "They bought themselves thirteen peaceful years, but I baptized my adulthood with their blood."

* * *

The silence was deafening as Cossette tried to grasp those words. Jean-Paul closed his eyes again. He was quite certain now that he was mad—hell, all he had to do now was tell her about sensei, and he would have spilled all his deepest secrets this day.

Yet hadn't it worked? Surely she would have to leave him alone now. Surely knowing he'd killed his own parents would end this charade once and for all. The price was irrelevant, merely reliving all the pain of his past was nothing when compared to the benefits of having her leave him... let the thread glow all it wished. She must leave him now and these thoughts could get out of his head.

He'd tuned out her presence and did not hear her wheeling forward, so he didn't notice how close she was until feeling her fingertips rest lightly on his back. An involuntary shudder ran through him. _No_. People did not touch him. Especially not that way, gentle and almost comforting. He tried to remember the last time he had ever felt such a thing and could not.

She'd withdrawn her hand when he shivered and it did not return. Yes, that was how it must be. He did not look at her... _just go away. Just leave me alone. Just let me be alone again, as I must be. I don't need your comfort. I have no regrets_.

Nothing good ever came of these thoughts. Slowly but surely he was drifting, finding himself lost in a memory...

He'd staggered home in the early morning darkness. He had felt righteous. Victorious. His keepers were asleep; there was no one to ask him why blood stained his hands, where he had been at such an hour. They would be displeased if they knew he'd been out. No... he had no freedom, never mind that he was technically an adult and had been for months. The accursed keepers still held a leash tightly around his throat.

Yet he had struck back, under their very noses and without their knowledge. Vengeance was his—vengeance against those who'd sold him to WAR. No, not vengeance. Justice.

He recalled gazing into the green eyes of his second victim, eyes so much like his own, but without his hatred burning in them. He saw the life draining from those eyes. Darkness drawing slowly and painfully over the man who owned them. As it should be... he felt no pity... no regrets...

Then he'd run to the bathroom and thrown up. And there he had remained, sobbing uncontrollably until dawn, when he'd showered and washed all the blood and guilt away. _But it didn't go so easily, did it? _No, he was still haunted by that image, of life fleeing from emerald eyes.

He no longer cried about it. In fact, that morning had been the last time he had ever cried about anything.

"Jean-Paul?"

Her voice rudely snapped him back to reality. "What? I answered your question. Go away."

"You know I can't do that." She sounded frustrated. "Dammit, Jean-Paul! Both of us know what's happening here. Stop trying to deny it. All you're doing is hurting yourself."

_Hurting myself?_ He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that statement but he could not. When he'd pushed her away during the tournament, hadn't the world started to fall apart? _Don't be ridiculous, that was just stress from_—

_STOP_.

His own mental demand shocked him. _I can't. She's going to distract me. She's going to use me and throw me away like everyone else does. She's..._ "Why does it matter to you?" His own feelings aside, he was pretty certain he'd never done anything to deserve much more than strained tolerance from her.

"Because it matters." She shrugged. "Who the hell are you, Jean-Paul? Can you answer that? When we were allies you were a jackass, but you're like that to everyone. You almost never even mentioned my injury, even sometimes went out of your way to pretend it didn't exist. Then you threw me out and started mocking me so much it was like a bad parody. Then you nearly get yourself killed to get us out of Cheyenne Mountain, and show up in my room on the transport falling all over yourself apologizing for being a jackass before. Oh, by the way, you all but admitted there what you're trying to deny here." Her sapphire eyes fixed on him. "You tell me, Jean-Paul. How the hell does all of this fit together?"

He felt himself locking up_. It's like this every time. Every time we get closer and closer to the point, and every time I can't handle it_. "What do you want me to say?" he asked weakly.

"The truth. What does it mean?"

_I have to do this. I have to_. He closed his eyes and tried to let the building pressure pass through him. _Get it over with, damn you. Say it._

"It means..." Words were coming, frightening words with implications he didn't want to deal with. But he didn't have a choice. He'd lost his choice long ago, when he'd realized she was the closest thing to an equal he would ever find...

_Say it._

_I can't say it._

"It means there's not a whole lot of people I'd really give a damn about if they dropped off the face of the world tomorrow, and you're one of them?"

He could feel the tension drain with surprising swiftness. "Good enough for now." She turned the chair around and looked back at him. "Sleep on that thought, because you look awful. We'll talk again later." She smiled at him before wheeling out.

He stared after her, waiting until he could no longer see her or hear the chair as it rolled along_. Not good enough. I know what it really means. It means I care about you, and that means I can no longer be alone_. He closed his eyes. It was safer to be alone. But it hurt. It had always hurt.

What frightened him most, he reflected as he let himself fall away into sleep, was finding out the hurt had not been worth it.

* * *

His dream was most unwelcome.

"Little fox?" The child hesitated as he approached the man seated in the snow. He hadn't made any noise, he didn't think, and sensei hadn't turned around. The old man was very good. He hadn't been in Alaska long enough to teach his young charge such mastery. But there were things he _could_ teach. "I sense you are troubled, young one."

"Mattie was callin' me mean names again."

"Did you hit him again?" Sensei's voice was stern.

"Uh-uh. You told me not to do that anymore. But... I went home an' cried." His own voice was petulant—for all his intelligence, he had still been a child.

"You are bothered by this?"

"Well... cryin's for wimps! ...Isn't it, sensei?"

The expression on sensei's face had been terrible, filled with sadness and pain at his question. "Little fox, come," he said finally. "Sit beside me and let us talk." He had moved forward slowly, reluctantly, and curled up in the snow. "Tell me, what is the first thing I taught you when you began to study the art of endurance?"

"That you can only be defeated if your spirit is broken." He recited almost mechanically, but not quite. Even then he'd believed in this statement, the ultimate core of sensei's teachings. Sensei's gaze beckoned him to continue. "You have to know yourself. You have to know nature. You have—"

"Enough for this moment, though your memory does you credit." He'd never figured out if sensei was mocking him, or merely trying to treat him as a 'normal' person. "Now tell me, little fox. How are you to know yourself, and strengthen your spirit so it cannot be broken, if you fear the expression of emotion?"

A long silence. Then, "I'm not 'fraid."

Sensei's tone was understanding. "Your caretakers told you that you ought not to cry, didn't they?"

"...Uh-huh." The boy grimaced. "Them, an' Mattie an' the others, an'..."

"Does what they say bother you?"

"A little."

"And what I say, does it matter as much?"

Emerald eyes grew wide. "Yeah! They're stupid. You're not."

A soft laugh, and for a moment he'd feared he'd made a mistake. "We will have to work on expanding your worldview to more complex assessments, but for now it will do. Understand this, little fox: tears are like acid. It is painful to let them fall, but keeping them inside you allows them to corrode your heart and soul." He leaned back. "Perhaps alone and in silence, but you must allow yourself that release."

He'd taken that advice for awhile, but sensei had gone back to Katsushai and his keepers became more strict, and slowly he'd let it fade away. Even alone and in silence he couldn't allow himself that vulnerability. Then there had been the tears of shock after his first kills, and then, of course, there had been nothing.

Until now. He was vulnerable now, because he'd let someone else in. What the hell. _If you are going to be in love, you can't afford to have acid in your heart, can you?_

When Jean-Paul woke up, he was crying.


	30. Gut Check

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 29: Gut Check

* * *

"You want me to _what?"_

Steffan just sat and stared at the three board members, who stared back at him with knowing expressions. They'd obviously expected an outburst of that sort. They'd damn well better have expected it, considering the insanity of what they were asking.

He tried again. "Uh. I'd love to pitch in and help the war effort and all, but can you at least explain why me, why this? Seems like you'd get better results having a trained assassin do your assassinating." He shrugged. "I've been wrong before, of course."

His father was the only one who didn't look amused. Deluna, obviously the leader of the batch, was outright smiling. "It's a perfectly reasonable question. We've sent two assassins already, and both have failed. You, however, have a unique advantage." His smile widened. "You are that rarest of all people, a Ganymede competitor who has not publicly declared for a side in this raging war. And make no mistake, you have _influence_, especially after your... heroic... actions against the Nova." He said this with hesitation, which was unsurprising. Steffan had gathered that his part in blowing up the board's old boss was a point of some contention.

Regardless, Deluna recovered and spread his hands wide. "Simply go in and request an audience with Shirro. The old buffoon was a PR man, he'll understand what a boost it would be to have you on his side. And surely nobody would suspect _you_ to be an assassin!"

Steffan spent a moment trying to work out if he'd just been insulted, then decided it didn't much matter. "And how'm I supposed to get out?"

Once your mission is completed, we will launch a strike on his fortress." For a moment the man looked disgusted. "We haven't the force necessary to simply _take_ the base, not after what those blasted Hellrazers did to us at Artemis. But even a small strike ought to provide sufficient distraction."

Steffan saw a great many holes in this plan, and if it were anyone but Shirro in charge of WAR, he probably wouldn't have even dreamed of going along with it. But Shirro... the old man would fall for the ploy beautifully. It would fit in with his worldview that of _course_ Steffan ought to show up and offer his support...

_Besides, I'm different now_. Steffan smiled. He had learned. He was confident again, but not overconfident. And it didn't take a genius to see that the board was offering him a mission of great glory. _They're getting old, and they want WAR to remain as their legacy. Do as they ask and I'll be the one charged with keeping that legacy alive_.

"I'll do it."

"Excellent!" Deluna clapped. "Ready yourself as needed, of course. Such a job requires the utmost care in preparation."

Steffan shot a glance at his father, who looked worried, and yet... he thought he saw a flicker of relief in his eyes as well.

He wondered what would have happened if he'd refused the mission.

* * *

"You've got one hell of a tech, Delaney. If I hadn't designed the thing myself, I'd think the nitrogen core was a standard feature." Falks paused for a moment. "Matter of fact, why _isn't_ it?"

Jean-Paul shrugged. He wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to Falks' words, but there was something in the man's aura that bothered him a great deal. He'd been getting more and more withdrawn since the massacre of Artemis.

He noted that he'd just thought of it as a 'massacre' again, and frowned. That was the title the media had given it, usually embellished with comments like "the Hellrazer massacre of Artemis' innocent civilians," and other equally overdramatic description. It wasn't good that he was starting to use those vultures' terms. Then again, other than a massacre, what could it be called?

Scowling, he returned his attention to Falks, who was still poking around the Shadow as if he'd never seen it before. _Let him_, he decided finally. Drooling over the machine, he was a lot less irritating than when he just sort of sat around sulking.

Which was most of what he did lately.

Jean-Paul left the hangar, leaving Falks to deal with Misty, who was storming in and quite obviously wondering who was messing with _her_ HAR. For a few moments he considered hanging around to watch the fireworks. _She'll bitch him out, he'll remind her he designed the thing, she'll convince him to invite her to dinner_.

He flinched at that thought as he remembered Cossette. (Inviting her to dinner wasn't high on his list of priorities, but, he figured, same concept.) She'd said they would talk again. They hadn't. Actually, he hadn't even seen her since their _talk_ earlier that week, and was alternately thinking about going to find her, or trying to convince himself he'd dreamed the whole thing.

Finding time for the first was proving not to be easy, and the second... well, he figured he was past that stage of denial. He'd _better_ be.

The Hellrazers had not attempted any major operations since the Artemis fiasco. Part of it was practical; they'd lost nearly half their HARs in that fight. But the larger part was psychological. Seeing how far the enemy was willing to go hadn't been a pleasant experience.

There'd been a few recon runs into Artemis Canyon (where it seemed the Kreissack loyalists' _real_ base was located), and several raids on targets of opportunity throughout Luna. But for the most part they were licking their wounds, and waiting.

_Waiting for what?_

His thoughts were interrupted when he turned the corner and nearly got run over by Major Donovan as he tore down the hallway. "Sorry, urgent busi—Jean-Paul, there you are! I've been looking all over!"

_When did we get on a first name basis?_ He knew the answer of course, no matter how long it had been since the tournament, the competitors were still decided celebrities. It was annoying, but inevitable. "Well, I've been all over. Just not at the same time you were looking there."

"Of course..." He was hesitant for a long moment. Then, "We're running a raid against a supply depot about a day north of here. It was Milano's, but apparently Raven got some agents in and had his people take over. Reports say they haven't had time to reinforce and if we can get there first, those supplies would be a godsend."

Jean-Paul nodded. "Sounds reasonable." He wasn't a raider—that was left to the Gargoyles and their stealth gear—but he was being pressed into service as a strategic advisor more and more often. He was good at it, and he supposed it beat market analysis. "What do you need from me?"

There was really no reason Donovan ought to look so uncomfortable. Jean-Paul _had_ tried to tone down the intimidation factor among allies, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd been asked for a battle plan. There was the celebrity issue, but that didn't explain it all...

The former Iron Fist officer shook his head. "There's a problem with the plan. Major reinforcements almost certainly can't come in soon enough, but... Raven's people do have another small outpost nearby. A handful of HARs and a handful of elite pilots... at the moment, including Raven himself."

Alarms started going off in Jean-Paul's head.

"We need to make sure he won't move in and back up the depot. Sending a force of our own to take out that outpost is suicide, between its location and who's guarding it—we can't spare a large enough force to ensure a victory. But we're pretty sure we could draw him out with the proper... uh..."

"Bait," Jean-Paul offered.

"Uh. Yes, that."

There was absolutely no reason he should even be considering accepting the mission. Jean-Paul knew this very well. But there was a distinct difference between _knowing_ and _caring_, and he nodded. "Cossette comes with me."

Donovan blinked. He looked like he'd been preparing for an argument, and now couldn't understand why he wasn't going to get one. "Well, if she agrees, certainly, we can spare her for a few days as well... is that all?"

Was that all? He thought for a few moments, then nodded. "That's all."

* * *

Cossette maneuvered the Electra wildly, sprinting ahead, falling back, running in circles... she saw the Shadow attempting to watch her as it walked, with minimal success, and laughed. "You should probably focus on where you're walking."

"Noted."

She wondered why he'd asked for her to come along. His obvious discomfort made her doubt it was because he liked her—though she no longer had much doubt that he _did_. It was probably for the simple reason that she was one of the Hellrazers' best, and he wasn't quite crazy enough to go out totally alone.

But there was also the fact that Cossette had not been in her HAR since Artemis, and had been chafing under those restraints. Being back in the Electra with no handicap to get in her way, she felt _alive_, alive enough not to mind that she was acting like a rookie who'd never jacked in before. Had he anticipated that?

_Get serious. Maybe he's not as much of a jackass as you used to think, but that's no reason to go overboard_.

She wasn't sure what she thought of the plan, as it mostly counted on Raven being a spiteful bastard. He was also supposed to recognize the Shadow, but that part was almost assured... it _was_ a pretty distinctive machine. Raven wasn't really known for controlling his temper, so it may just happen that he'd drop everything and head out for revenge against the man who'd handed him his most humiliating tournament loss. And yet... surviving at WAR took discipline, and now he was running his own faction. Would he decide the risks outweighed petty vengeance?

The other problem, and what Cossette considered the biggest problem, was that the plan also counted on the two of them tying up half a dozen HARs for an extended period of time. There hadn't been much discussion on _that_ aspect of the mission.

"Three hours to go," he reported, still more or less ignoring his companion's erratic movements. "The raid team should be in position."

"We're holding them up?"

"Not really. The transport crews still have to rest."

"Oh. Right." It was easy to forget that one needed no rest while jacked into a HAR—the body, after all, was already asleep. The people driving the salvage trucks, on the other hand, would've been driving for over twenty hours.

They kept moving. Finally Cossette decided it was time to ask the question she'd been wanting to ask all day. "So, why're you dragging me along on this?"

The Shadow glanced back at her. "You didn't have to come."

"Details, details." Like anything was going to keep her out of her HAR when she was given the option. "Answer the question."

He quickened his pace. "You've put me through entirely enough lately, and I need to focus if we're not going to get ourselves torn into scrap metal within five minutes. So, how about you not go there?"

I've_ put _him_ through too much? Interesting way to look at it_. "We've got three hours."

The Shadow was practically sprinting now. Cossette shrugged, caught up to him, and stuck one arm out to block his movement.

"You're very annoying, you know that?"

"Thank you."

Jean-Paul pushed her arm aside and kept moving. "Because I thought it would be interesting to see how we're going to work together. Or _if_ we're going to work together, more accurately." He didn't look at her again. "Too many wars have been lost because the soldiers were allowed to get too... close."

That was unexpected. "Soldiers, eh? You don't seem like the type to consider yourself a _soldier_."

"I'm acquainted with reality."

"Ah." She supposed he was right, at that. Then, "Maybe you are. At least you're finally admitting the _close_ part."

"That particular aspect of reality seems to have been shoved down my throat."

* * *

Raven merely looked up at the door opening. The aide standing there flinched under his boss's gaze, but held his ground and waited to be addressed. _Good. Not a wimp_. "This had better be important."

"We've picked up two HARs nearby, sir. It appears to be another Hellrazer patrol."

A deep, exasperated sigh. Such a gesture from Raven usually meant someone was about to bleed. "And why, may I ask, does a routine patrol concern me?"

"Not exactly routine, sir. One of the HARs is a Shadow."

Time stopped for him for several long moments. _Shadow_. With WAR in shambles, there had never been an actual production line started for the machine. Which meant either the Hellrazers had found another prototype, or...

_Him_.

He stood abruptly enough to startle the aide. "Alert the rest of the team. We're going hunting."

As he stalked for the pilot's bunker he reflected on his loss. There was no reason the freak ought to have even scratched his paint, let alone half destroyed his HAR... it hadn't been his elimination. In fact, it hadn't been all that important in the scheme of things. But it most certainly had pissed Raven off.

This time they weren't in the arena's controlled confines. This time he'd smash that Shadow to scrap. With any luck, the neural shock would do the rest. If he weren't so lucky... well, at least the freak would know his little fluke in the Fire Pit meant nothing...

And nothing would stand in the way of Raven's destiny.

* * *

"Incoming."

"Right on schedule."

Cossette moved behind the Shadow as it crouched on a rocky outcropping, tracking the signals as they approached. "Pyros in the lead. One Katana, one Jaguar, one Chronos, two Thorns."

He was quiet for a short time. Then, "One good lightning ball can take out the Chronos, yes?" A Chronos fighting an Electra was one of the worst possible HAR matchups, at least for the Chronos—the exposed stasis field generator made it almost cruelly vulnerable to the pointy-limbed HAR's electrical strikes.

"Sure, assuming I get a good shot at it."

"If it's standing still?"

"That qualifies."

The enemy HARs were very close now, as the radar saw things, and she could just make them out on the horizon. "We have better position," Jean-Paul determined. "We'll have the Chronos out of action before the Thorns and Katana are anywhere near in range." The Katana could easily jump up to their ledge, as could the Jaguar if it didn't choose to stay back and snipe—and of course, the Pyros could easily fly up on its jets. All of these would take time, however, and they were probably too high up for the squat Thorns to get to even jumping. They would have to go around. "That'll split them up."

"They're Raven's personal backup squad, they have to be disciplined enough to stick together."

"It's six against two, and they're Raven's personal backup squad. The fact that they're out here at all means ego is winning over brains."

"Granted."

Raven's team stopped abruptly, well within sight distance, but not quite within weapons range. Cossette frowned. Perhaps they were working out a strategy of their own... no, a burst of static indicated a new channel opening. "Well well, look what we found. Hiding out up there like you know we're about to tear you apart..." Raven's voice dripped contempt as the Pyros moved forward. "Tell you what. There's no glory in disassembling some cripple's ride, so how bout this, freak? You and me can duel, and everyone else can just stay out of it."

Flinch. Cossette was pretty sure she trusted Raven about as far as she could throw his HAR—without being jacked in. Then of course, there were the actual words... _just you keep that up, Raven, and we'll see who gets disassembled!_

Obviously, Jean-Paul agreed. "Are you trying to tell me even with six of you, you can only handle us one at a time?" The Shadow stood. "I wonder which you're scared of, the freak or the cripple..."

They were able to hear Raven sputtering in indignation for a second or two before the channel closed, and the six HARs were moving. Cossette watched the Chronos. "Think he'll warp up?"

"Not if we don't give him the chance." Three shadows leapt out, and she knew sending out that many would sorely tax even Jean-Paul's focus. _Okay, maybe we're desperate_. One slammed the Jaguar to the ground, another punched the Katana, though didn't succeed in knocking it over. The third came in behind the Chronos and grabbed it around the waist.

Cossette had thrown out several balls of lightning even before the projection had the HAR in its grip. She'd thrown three—surely one would have to hit—yes. A flare of white light as the core went out, the backlash of chronal energy twisting and warping the rest of the machine's structure. It hit the ground, smoking.

Wisely, the other five had backed away from their stricken companion, clearly anticipating the attack. "Damn, was hoping at least one of them would be dumb enough to get caught in the blast," she muttered. "They should've left that one back at base anyway. Chronos against Electra. Right."

Jean-Paul didn't answer, as he was focusing on the incoming Katana and Pyros. The Jaguar had set up below and was firing off concussion bolts as fast as the cannon's cooling system would allow, and the Thorns, as predicted, were moving around.

_To come up behind us. Oh damn_. "Um. Strategy guy."

"Yes?"

"Have we taken into account that our great position is about to get us surrounded?"

"As a matter of fact, we have." A shadow dove at the Katana in mid-flight, but the pilot shot one blade out and knocked it away. The real Shadow staggered a moment, recovered. "We're going to go down there and handle that Jaguar. Now." His HAR didn't even move to the edge, just crouched and leapt with all the power in its impressive hydraulics system.

Cossette curled the Electra into a ball and followed, almost laughing when the Pyros tried to hit her and ended up damaging itself instead. _He should've known better than that._ The media called the technique Rolling Thunder—more appropriate to the HAR's theme, sure, but when she had designed the feature, she'd referred to it as the Hedgehog Defense.

Whatever the name, she remained in position well after clearing the ledge, straightening only after she'd slammed into the Jaguar at full speed.

"Get clear!"

She took time to give the Jaguar a good shock before taking Jean-Paul's advice, and her temperature sensors were able to pick up the chill from the ice blast which pinned the downed HAR to the ground as she departed. She turned. "They're coming back down."

"That's fine." Two more projections came out, each landing powerful blows against the Jaguar's chest plate. "We'll have this out of the way before they get here..."

She could almost feel sorry for the Jaguar's pilot, whose world for a full thirty seconds—an eternity in HAR combat—became nothing but shadow impacts and lightning jolts. Finally, one of the projections hit the reactor.

Two against four, while preferable odds to two against six, still didn't look so good as what was left of Raven's team approached them. "Well, we've pissed them off."

"Excellent. My life is complete." The Shadow dropped into a defensive position. "We take Raven first."

"Got it."

The next part of the battle was little more than a blur, if a rather excruciating blur. They were hitting the Pyros, doing good damage, yet everywhere she turned there was a blade or spike to shred her armor. Jean-Paul seemed to be having a worse time—one of the Thorns seemed to be following him with no purpose other than to hit his shadows as soon as they were projected.

A small explosion and a cry of pain distracted her for a moment, long enough to see that one of the Pyros' waist jets had gone out. It looked like Raven had managed to shut it off before the damage became critical, however, saving him from the crippling explosion that could have occurred. He was still down, though, and with one thruster gone it would be difficult for the ungainly HAR to right itself... while she considered this, a Thorn came in and drove a spike squarely into what passed for the Electra's hand. The resulting blast cost it the spike, but also eliminated one of Cossette's tesla coils. _Dammit!_

She tried to find Jean-Paul and saw a gaping hole in the Shadow's left arm, spewing white fog and Synthoil. _Great. We're a mess, and even if Raven can't get back up, we've got three of them left that we've hardly touched..._

She hoped the raid on the depot was almost finished, because there was no question the fight was.

* * *

The Pyros was struggling to get upright, and its remaining companions suddenly turned away from the Shadow, focusing all their attacks on Cossette. Jean-Paul had the distinct impression the bird wanted to deal with him personally... he eyed the dripping wound in his arm, which had cost him the use of his nitrogen core, and tried to work out who would come off on the worse end of that encounter.

Seeing the three HARs beating on the Electra sparked something in him, though, something he had not expected. Anger. It could not be allowed. She would feel all the intense pain from the attacks, and from the way they were partially pulling their punches, it was clear Raven had ordered for such pain.

Pain was the best case scenario. At its worst, the careful treatment to maximize damage without causing destruction would result in terrible neural shock for the pilot. Perhaps permanent injury. Perhaps—rare, but possible—death.

Dying was not an option.

_Go to hell. All of you! _He threw out a shadow, intending to take the Pyros out of the battle for good even as he whirled to focus his own attacks on the Katana at Cossette's back. He never got to throw a punch.

Normally, releasing a shadow was a painful experience, rather like being ripped in half, but Jean-Paul had thought he'd adjusted to the brief pain by now. This... this was a pain like nothing he'd ever experienced in the Shadow's operation. Even as rage swelled within him, filling his chest with a crushing agony, he felt himself being ripped apart from every direction at once. And the pain just wouldn't _stop_...

His vision clouded with static and he was vaguely aware that he was dangerously close to neural shock himself. But what the hell was causing it? He fought. He had to stay jacked in. It was a losing battle... he would have to lose contact with the HAR and black out soon, or perhaps the techs back at Xi would read the frantic neural patterns and jack him out to prevent the same serious damage he'd so feared would affect Cossette just moments before.

Something new. A terrible shattering sound filled his ears, harsh and grating. It was over quickly, though. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the pain seemed to be lessening, fading. Slowly his vision began to clear. He was ready—the nitrogen core engaged—he'd freeze that damn Katana, take one of the Thorns, leave the third to Cossette, and hope his shadow had done its duty against the Pyros even while he was immobilized by pain...

Then the world came fully back into view and all his planning ceased. There was nothing before him but an Electra, standing in the midst of a great deal of scrap metal.

"Jean-Paul, how did you do that?"

"Painfully," he answered immediately. Then he blinked, realizing that if she were asking how he'd done something, it hadn't been anything normal... yet he'd certainly thought he was acting within routine operations. "...How'd I do what? I sent out a shadow, and it hurt like hell, and by the time I recovered..." The HAR gestured expansively. "The place was a mess."

The Electra regarded him for a few moments, and he could almost see the suspicion and disbelief in its gaze. "You mean that wasn't intentional?"

"_What_ wasn't intentional?"

Shrug. "Sending out a two hundred foot shadow that obliterated Raven and all his friends."

It took him some time to fully comprehend this. "Oh. Well." It seemed to explain a great deal, but he still didn't know how he'd done it. "I'll have to talk to Falks about that."

Static crackled in his ears, cutting off the conversation. "We're done at the depot. Any chance you two can disengage and hook up with us, or are we better off staying separated?"

"We're disengaged," Cossette answered dryly. "Very disengaged."

* * *

A slender female figure stood on a rocky outcropping, silent and still. Silvery hair glinted in the dim ambient light. Despite this, someone not looking too closely would have seen nothing there at all, because she did not want to be seen. She was here to observe, not to interfere.

The shuttle had landed a short time ago, near the lunar fortress known as Border Command—its proper term was Central Command for Colony Defense and Operations, but it didn't take much to work out why the humans wouldn't want to call it that in regular conversation. It was well guarded, but nobody had challenged the young man who left the shuttle and headed for the first gates.

She sensed deception oozing from the youth, but it was nothing to her. A new phase in the war would begin here. Or not. Neither outcome seemed better than the other, but she _did_ need to know of the situation...

Angel continued to watch. Things would begin to happen soon enough.


	31. Changing of the Guard

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 30: Changing of the Guard

* * *

Steffan sat in the office and waited. Border Command wasn't as impressive as Cheyenne Mountain... in fact it was downright utilitarian. But he supposed that made sense, as the big boss was only supposed to be here in case of a major crisis.

For a corporation so well-prepared for a major crisis, WAR had clearly never really planned on _having_ one.

His quarters had been comfortable enough, he supposed, and at least it was a change in scenery. It turned out Shirro was gone, meeting with some of his people, but when contacted he'd ordered Steffan given the best accommodations available. He wouldn't be long, only a day or two.

In the meantime, according to the news, Raven's faction was losing steam. There were reports of a crushing defeat—nobody seemed to know details, only whispered rumors from those in the former bodyguard's camp. But many were leaving Raven and rejoining the old board, the Kreissack loyalists.

Perhaps Raven's troubles were largely ignored because the Avenger Guard had chosen to surface again. They'd contented themselves with low-level terrorists strikes and been considered a minor player in this whole mess... until a force of HARs and infantry and even some power armor showed up and sacked Cheyenne Mountain.

"Sacked" was how the Guard demanded it be said, and it seemed quite accurate. Anything with even moderate military or financial value had been taken (indeed, the real battle appeared to have been the Guard's defense of their convoy as they left, rather than the actual storming of the compound). Analysts were being dragged out on every network, claiming that while it was an incredible blow to Kreissack's loyalists, there was an even more significant aspect: since the first takeover of WAR's stronghold, the primary front of the war had been on Luna. It seemed the Guard wanted it back on Earth.

Steffan was fine with that. When he was finished here, there wouldn't be much point in fighting on Luna anymore anyway.

He was nervous, though he didn't think he'd shown it. Somehow all his plans of taking WAR's power had never really involved killing anyone, and especially not personally... he'd do it, of course. He'd agreed to the mission, and he had to do it. Destiny and all. _As long as I don't have to like it, it's all good_.

Finally the door opened and Shirro entered. He looked tired, but there was a smile on his face. "Steffan, it's good to see you again."

He just nodded, not quite certain how to respond to that.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, but, you know... politics." He sighed deeply and shrugged. "Well, I'm here, and you're here, and we need to talk. So why don't you hand me that gun you're hiding, and we can get on with it?"

Steffan's reaction to this statement went somewhere beyond shock. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what he'd done, how Shirro had known... mutely he removed the small pistol from its hidden holster and handed it to the old man. "I... uh... I mean, the way things have been going lately... erm... I just..."

Shirro took his seat and smiled. "Calm down, if you would. I'd just like to talk to you, and I think it's best for both of us if I can finish what I have to say without being shot." He shrugged again. "Is that acceptable?"

Steffan regained coherancy, sort of. "H... how did you know...?"

"Oh. Well if we're going to talk about _that_... you're a very fortunate young man, I'd just like you to know." He leaned back in his chair. "The meeting which held up your visit? I was speaking to two traitors from the board. Both of whom hold an intense personal dislike for me, and feel my reforms are foolish and dangerous. However, your parents were concerned enough for your safety that they chose to warn me of the mission you were given, in hopes of letting you survive it."

There was a long silence. _They... defected... for me?_ "W... where are they now?"

"Back home, of course, with the board none the wiser. You see, if you'd refused the mission, you and they were going to be shot. Considering the punishment for such a minor infraction, they could hardly have you go home to find your parents had betrayed the board, you understand?"

"Oh. Um. Yeah, that makes sense." Steffan tried to relax. "So what do you want to talk about, then? ...Sir?" _Play this right and you might even get a comfortable cell_.

Shirro regarded him evenly. "What do you think will come of this war, Steffan?"

That was the last question he'd been expecting. "You mean who I think's gonna win? Or what'll happen if one side wins? Or...?"

"Either. Do you see a future beyond this conflict?" His tone was very serious now.

That seriousness convinced Steffan to consider the question carefully, rather than blurting out what seemed like the most acceptable answer. "I don't really know," he admitted. "Before I just assumed the board would win, since it had to win. Since I wasn't sure what I'd do with myself if they lost. But now I guess I'm... not really with them, anymore."

"That's a reasonable take, especially for someone so young." The head of WAR—such as it was—smiled at him, a genuine smile. "I've wondered about the future myself. And I'm pretty sure it was known throughout the company that my philosophy was simply to sit back and let things work themselves out, so I imagine my actions after taking over the company came as a great shock."

_Understatement of the year_. "Yeah, definitely."

"Therein lies the rub." He sighed, and again Steffan realized just how tired he looked. "I have always been well aware that things do not work themselves out if _nobody_ acts. I was content to sit and watch when there were others in power. A rebellion, defiance of the company, would accomplish nothing but getting me prematurely killed, when I might do greater good in a different situation." He spread his arms. "I waited, and sure enough, that different situation I hoped for arrived. Things had worked themselves out, and I found myself in a position to attempt to right WAR's wrongs. And so I acted."

That seemed to make sense, Steffan supposed. It was an interesting view of the world, that was for sure. _Could I ever be that patient? Or that optimistic?_ He'd thought before that he was confident, but now he was quite certain that what Shirro had, that was _true_ confidence. "And now?"

"I am quite certain the war will work itself out. I've paid careful attention to the forces involved and their strengths, and I even believe the result will be beneficial. Perhaps the future will be kind enough that someday, people will look back on this war as a good and necessary turning point, rather than merely mindless destruction and horror." He looked down at his desk. "I also believe I will not see that future."

Steffan's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it, Steffan. While I waited, I spun away so many atrocities and abuses of power... what can happen to me at the end of this war? Perhaps a faction hostile to my goals will take control—though I doubt it—and arrange a suitably messy exit for me. Perhaps my own supporters will win, and the nagging distrust of WAR's old spin master will continue to haunt the new regime. Worst..." He paused, making certain he had his young companion's attention.

"Worst?"

"Worst, a neutral faction may succeed. No need to do away with me, but no need to put me in charge, either. The mere fact of my existence will cause discontent. Some might try to return me to power, despite my wishes—in all wars, there are zealots who can't stop fighting even after the ones they are fighting for choose to cease their conflict. Some will consider WAR's former ruler—and the man who caused this war—a loose end to be tied up. Call me egotistical, but I just can't see any future where I don't cause trouble."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I can't. But is it a risk that can be taken? I think we can both agree that when this is over, the political climate will be very... unstable for a time."

"I guess that's true." Steffan thought he was getting a glimpse of where this conversation was leading, and he didn't think he liked it. "So... what are you getting at?"

The old man speared him with an intense gaze that looked rather out of place on a face so used to smiles. "The facts of the matter are very simple. I am a relic, a creature of the old WAR. I must clear the way for the future. This future I believe in belongs to the youth, the ones relatively untainted by WAR's corruption. Such as you."

"Me? Untainted? My parents are on the board—"

"And you've just stated yourself that you aren't on the board's side anymore." Shirro raised a hand to cut off any further outburst. "You are very young, too young to be placed in this situation. There are others who grew up with WAR in their blood, yet they do not like the company, and even now seek changes more radical than those I imposed... or, indeed, wish to topple it entirely. You've seen what the board was willing to do to your entire family if you simply refused to follow their orders. That was the power Kreissack had, and the power his followers want back. Is that a kind of power you believe should exist?"

Steffan was silent. He'd wanted that power for himself, and yet... the reality of being on the _other_ side of that power made him shudder. "No... no, not really."

"Then you understand. You must live through this war, Steffan. I have told you my beliefs, and now I trust you to act on them when all of this violence has ended."

He closed his eyes. _I can do that. Can't I? If I could lead WAR, surely I can lead in establishing whatever comes after WAR._ He realized the full implications. _The board wanted to use me as a tool. They didn't really care, so long as they kept their mansions and paychecks. Shirro is trusting me with the future._ And he knew which would be the greater achievement. Yet... "I don't understand why you'd want me. Why not call in some demolitionist, or even Milano?"

"Because you were convenient, most simply. You presented yourself," Shirro answered. "And besides. The old board did explain your place correctly. Those of us who fought at Ganymede were established as the company's best, and must deal with the fact that politics are presently revolving around us. Your part in this war is not widely known. You, alone among all of us, can claim to be impartial. Remove yourself from this factionalized squabbling _now_, and yours will be the most powerful voice when the time comes to build something new."

_He's so certain all of this will happen_. Steffan had never seen such faith, not even in the most devoted followers of any religion he'd ever encountered. It shone in Shirro's eyes as he spoke, the certainty of a greater future.

But a future without him.

"What do I do now? I can't just leave here, surely if I fail they'll kill my parents just out of spite, won't they?"

"Yes, probably." Shirro opened a desk drawer and withdrew a compact weapon. Steffan didn't recognize the model, but it looked quite efficient. "However, you need not fail. As I said, I am quite certain I can't survive this war." He pushed the gun across the desk. "Use this. The automated security systems activate upon the firing of an unfamiliar weapon, but my own pistol won't set them off."

Steffan looked up slowly, eyes so wide he felt they might pop out of his skull at any moment. "You..."

"Can you do it, Steffan? I'm not certain I can make myself pull the trigger, for all my certainty that I have to go. I have no wish to make a murderer of you, so if you prefer, we will go have one of my guards carry it out. Then you can leave this place. I've already told them of my intentions, and they are in the bunkers, ready for the attack which was meant to cover your escape. Nobody will stop you as you leave."

One hand touched the weapon gingerly. A small part of his mind was certain this was some sort of trick, and pulling that trigger would be the last action he ever took... yet there was fierce determination in Shirro's eyes, and reassurance. "You're... you're sure about this?" he whispered as he picked up the pistol and standing to set himself in a decent firing stance. _He has to be positive. He can't change his mind_.

Shirro nodded. "I have done all I can in this place, and I have the utmost confidence in you. I am ready to move on." His tone was firm. No doubt. No regret.

"Then I can do it." He struggled to make the words come out, surprised that he was choking up so badly. Until ten minutes ago he'd felt nothing but contempt for this man—this man he had come to kill. "It isn't murder... I'm just... helping you move on. To the next place."

A wide smile crossed Shirro's face, and his eyes closed. "Yes! Exactly."

Steffan waited a moment, what felt like a very long moment, to be certain Shirro had nothing else to say. Then a single shot rang out.

* * *

"We called it a projector for convenience's sake, but other than some technical details, it really does function in much the same way. The ability to vary the size of the shadows was always an intended function."

Falks had seemed quite startled when he reviewed the Shadow's battle log, and much more when he saw the monitor feed from Cossette's Electra. It _probably_ hadn't helped that Jean-Paul practically pinned him to a wall demanding answers, but he'd still been a bit shaken from the ordeal himself.

"You never mentioned that part."

"It was never very practical. You found out first-hand why the larger ones caused problems, and the smaller ones were even worse... I wasn't a test pilot, of course, but the reports were quite clear on that." He shook his head. "I never imagined they could be triggered without a conscious decision to trigger them, or I'd have warned you."

Jean-Paul could see from Cossette's expression that she was thinking the same thing he was. _Obviously you weren't thinking that hard_. It was a well-known phenomenon that as a pilot became more attuned with a particular HAR, the machine could seen to respond to the pilot's emotional state. Of course that wasn't _really_ what it was doing. Much as people often didn't know the full limitations of their own bodies, merely being jacked into a HAR did not give a pilot full understanding of what that HAR could do. And so, much like humans in their own bodies, when pushed to the limits a HAR pilot could make their machine do things they hadn't known it was capable of.

That was, in fact, one of the first things he'd learned back during the damn orientation sessions. _Don't worry if you make the HAR do something strange, but do consider calming down_.

"Never been in one o' the big tin cans, have ya, engineer man?" Ratchet inquired easily, and Jean-Paul sighed. Falks was acting weird enough lately he hadn't really wanted to start a confrontation. "They call it the Hailey Effect, 's been pretty common knowledge fer awhile now."

A hesitation. "Well, yes, there is that, but I..." He looked at Jean-Paul and his expression became a bit more nervous. "It must have slipped my mind considering, ah, the subject doing the test—er—the piloting."

Somehow, the revelation (or at least, admission) that Falks thought of him as nothing but a glorified test pilot was unsurprising. He'd been quite well aware of that already. _After all, that's what I am. A tool_. But it still annoyed him. Especially the fact that some scientist had determined that Jean-Paul, by virtue of only his reputation and normal indifferent front, was some sort of biological robot immune to basic laws of human function...

Said a lot of good things about the success of his mask, but still. He sighed. "Falks, contrary to popular belief, even I can get pissed off. Please keep that in mind next time you want to use me as your guinea pig."

Falks looked stricken. "Ah... yes. Of course."

"Yeah, otherwise _you'll_ be the one that pisses him off," Misty agreed in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone. "First he just comes at you, eyes burning like a madman, and you can't look away. Then if you manage to break the eye contact, you see the fangs." She was advancing on him as she said this. "If you get him _really_ mad, they'll start dripping blood, and the talons start to sprout..." She hooked her fingers into claws and gave a low snarl. "And if you still haven't shut up or fainted from fear..." She lunged. "HE EATS YOUR SOUL!"

The engineer retreated into the corner with a faint squeak.

Misty retreated. "Course once he calms down, he'll spit it back out. I'm told souls don't taste too good."

Falks was still trying to recover from him jumping at her, but the rest of the room was staring at Misty with expressions of mixed amusement and disbelief. "Yo Misty," Ratchet finally ventured, "whatcha high on, an' where can I get me some o' that?"

She shrugged. "Call it cabin fever, I guess."

Jean-Paul tried to reconcile Misty, the world's biggest workoholic, who'd stay shut up in a hangar for years on end if allowed, with _cabin fever_. It wasn't working. He had the distinct impression she'd sensed his annoyance and decided to make Falks squirm on his behalf.

Or maybe he was wrong.

Interesting how he now considered being wrong such a natural concept... he glanced at Cossette and saw her struggling to reign in her laughter.

_Of course. She's seen me angrier than Misty—or anyone else—ever has_.

Unfortunately for him, Lance decided to jump into the conversation. "It's all true, you know," he informed the room in a matter-of-fact tone. "I was the guy's roommate all through college, he ate my soul once a week. I had to start buying 'em at WarMart."

Jean-Paul closed his eyes. _Oh god_. He wasn't sure he could take this turning into a running gag, but that was where it'd go if he let this keep up...

Tanith saved him. "If you guys have time to talk about your weird shopping lists, you've got time to train. C'mon, MOVE!"

He shot her a grateful look, and she just shook her head and pointed in the direction of the pilot bunker.

* * *

He'd slipped from Border Command under cover of the old board's air strikes, just as intended. But he didn't head for the previously settled rendezvous point. No, he couldn't do that at all.

_I can't go back. I have to remain... become... impartial. I can't be the board's tool for any more of their dirty work_. Steffan looked back at the fortress and knew the strikes weren't hurting much. Blasting off some armor, maybe knocking out a generator. The automatic turrets had opened up, but none of the manned defenses... all the soldiers were in the bunkers, waiting it out, just as Shirro had said.

There was no need for Kreissack's loyalists to know that. The agreed-upon timeslot of ten minutes would expire, and the fighters would disengage, returning to their hidden base in Artemis Canyon. They would decide Steffan had been killed during his escape—an idea that would be backed up by the static they received from his obliterated comms unit.

He was sorry that he wouldn't be able to tell his parents. Not immediately, anyway. After all they'd risked to keep him alive... but this was the only way to fulfill his promise to Shirro. They would be quite securely in the rest of the old board's good graces, being the parents of a hero and martyr for the Cause. Or at least, they'd have to be treated as such, an example to encourage cooperation from others...

He'd get back to them eventually. This he promised them, and himself.

What he was going to do in the meantime, he hadn't quite figured out yet. "Come on Steffan, think. You were gonna take over the world, remember? And now you've been handed full responsibility for the future, remember?" It was quite laughable when he phrased it that way, yet Shirro's fervor had infected him. The mission was not laughable. The mission was vital. "Surely it can't be that hard to find a place to camp out until this is all done."

"No, surely it cannot."

He whirled, hand going to his sidearm. (Shirro's sidearm actually, but he doubted the person on the receiving end would care who it belonged to.) Then he relaxed. Slightly.

A woman with jade green eyes and silvery hair stood before him, a silent apparition in the shadows. "Angel." He hadn't heard anything of her since the war started. Apparently she, too, was one of those rare competitors with no stake in this fight.

She nodded to him. "You have gained wisdom, human, and your mission is an important one. Now you seek sanctuary. This can be arranged..." As she spoke, two other forms seemed to materialize behind her. He couldn't make out features in the semidarkness, but he could see both had the same strange silvery hair, the same piercing eyes.

_Human?_

"How do you know about that?" he asked finally, not removing his hand from his weapon, but also not removing the weapon from its holster.

She gestured for him to follow. "Come with us. All will be explained." Then her voice whispered in his mind, without her lips ever moving._ We need your help, and in return, we will help you.._

He stared at her in silence. _Did she... just... talk to me... in my... head?_

_Yes. Come now_.

Steffan tried to be suspicious, yet he sensed no threat from the mysterious woman... and really, he had nowhere else to go. He nodded, and he went.


	32. Power Shift

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 31: Power Shift

* * *

"Shirro's dead." 

Jean-Paul did not respond to Lance's statement. He remained silent and unmoving, staring up at the stars.

So Shirro was dead. That was going to cause an incredible power shift—probably to Milano's side. It was unlikely many of Shirro's supporters had much sympathy for Raven's goals, and almost certainly they wouldn't join with Kreissack's loyalists, when the man they'd been supporting represented the escape from Kreissack's rule.

Demolitionists would pick up a few, the "well if we can't have it nobody can!" types, but most of that force would rally to Milano's cause.

For all his claims to have noble goals, Milano still wanted WAR to be saved. As intact as possible, and with him at the head. Of course. _We'll have to hit him. Just to keep him from getting too confident once the reinforcements start pouring in_. But where to strike? The most obvious answer seemed to be one, or more, of the scattered supply depots. The Hellrazers could use the loot, and all the people in the world weren't much help to Milano if he couldn't equip them.

But hitting the supplies was nothing new, nothing particularly noteworthy, and the former security chief was very good about securing his equipment. A training camp would do greater morale damage, and—while certainly heavily guarded—the protection on one of the sprawling facilities would be less dense than at a supply post.

Of course, a lot more people would die in such a strike. But what the hell? _We've already destroyed a city by letting the enemy blow it up, a few thousand trainees is nothing._

"One death is a tragedy," he mumbled, "a million deaths is a statistic."

"Jay?"

He blinked and looked up, remembering Lance's presence. "Sorry." He considered where to go from there. "What happened?"

"An assassin from Kreissack's loyalists. Shirro's people claim the assassin was caught and _dealt with_." He closed his eyes. "Doesn't make their boss any less dead though."

"That's true." Jean-Paul studied his old friend with a calculating gaze. "You don't seem pleased."

"Should I be?"

"The leader of WAR is gone."

Lance looked at him and for a moment, he expected to be told off for being happy about someone else dying. Instead the blond man just shrugged. "There's at least three other people claiming to be the leader of WAR right now, and if _someone_ has to do it, I'd much prefer Shirro over two of them. Wish they'd shot Raven instead."

"There's always hope." He was surprised to find himself feeling guilty. He'd dragged Lance into this, after all, and it seemed the war was changing him. Not necessarily for the better.

_Or is he changed? It's in my blood to hate WAR, perhaps his as well_. He smiled darkly. Blood and country. The cause behind all the hate.

Well, not that WAR hadn't done plenty to deserve the hate.

"Jay, can I ask you something?"

"Go for it."

Perhaps his flippant tone gave him away. "Will you answer?"

"...That'll depend what you ask." He could think of a great many things Lance might want to ask, and not one of them was a question he wanted to address right now, but he supposed he might as well hear him out.

"D'you think Falks is, y'know, stable?"

Well. _That_ was unexpected. "I don't think he's ever been especially stable. Or do you mean, is he less stable than usual?"

"It seems like he's been going downhill since we got here." Lance sat next to him and shrugged. "I don't really know how he was before, of course, but... he's just acting weird. Nervous. And he's WAR's chief engineer, forgetting basic stuff about HARs? Even _I_ know what the Hailey Effect is, and I've only been piloting for about a month."

Jean-Paul considered this. It was true, of course. "Well, he's not being himself, that's for sure. The guy's exactly what you said, an engineer. And an administrator. And this is all out war... He's pretty out of his depth."

"So am I."

"You're adapting. He's not."

Lance was frowning. "He bothers me."

"He's bothered me for a long time, but I suspect for different reasons." A silence settled over them for a time, then, "He's harmless."

"Yeah, I guess so." It was clear he wasn't convinced.

"Lance."

"Hmm?"

"Keep an eye on him."

* * *

Milano shook his head as he studied the reports. His force numbers would be the envy of any other leader in this war—with the possible exception of the Avenger Guard, whose ranks seemed to be swelling greater every day. But it wasn't the head count he was looking at. 

The losses were just too high.

In the two months since Shirro's death, the Hellrazers—a faction which had usually ignored Milano's band—had gone on the attack, burning all three of his training facilities on Luna to the ground. The deaths had been somewhere in five digits, injuries and equipment losses even greater.

_What a damn mess_.

He had yet to get even a single agent into the enigmatic Hellrazers, who did not seem to actively recruit for their cause. Even without that source of intel, it didn't take much to work out why, after nearly doubling his ranks with the addition of Shirro's loyalists, he might suddenly become a primary target...

They'd taken several supply depots too, but that loss wasn't as severe. His people on Earth were seizing the Kreissack loyalists' facilities just as quickly as the Hellrazers on Luna were taking theirs.

_But still_... "What do you two think?"

"Sir?" Behind him, Nielsen and Sanna both straightened.

"We always must fight the greater of the evils." Milano's dark eyes closed, he had memorized the statistics. "I am inclined to think Raven and the old board are both vastly greater evils than any demolitionist faction, and we have succeeded in seeing only minimal conflict with these lesser evils. However..." He shook his head. No attacks on his forces from Kreissack's loyalists in the last month. "At what point do we have to stop focusing on the greater evil, and start focusing on the greater threat?"

"That would have to be your decision, sir," Nielsen demurred. "The troops will gladly follow you if you choose to change fronts."

Milano found that answer irritating and not at all satisfactory. "Sanna?"

"I wonder if we are approaching this completely wrong," she ventured after a moment. "The demolitionists, you may have noticed, do not fight each other except for minor, incidental skirmishes. They all seek a common goal—albeit for different reasons—and so, while they do not cooperate, they do not interfere with each others' work." Pause. "The exception being the Katsushai Liberation Force, but I think they are not so much demolitionists as radicals seeking to impose their own empire in place of WAR."

He nodded in agreement with Sanna's assessment, but held up a hand to stop her from going further. "This is all true. And you are going to suggest that the logical step is to achieve a truce with the other loyalist factions, then fight it out with them once the demolitionists are out of the way."

"Yessir."

"No." Milano's voice was firm. "We will not compromise ourselves in such a manner."

Nielsen frowned. "Surely a ceasefire would not compromise us that badly."

Inwardly Milano flinched, because he'd thought he had these two trained a bit better than that. "That is true," he agreed, "it may not harm our security... though making pacts with men such as Raven, I wonder." He shrugged. "That is not the compromise I am worried about. We are _not like them_."

"That," Sanna jumped back in cautiously, "is evident."

"Not if we choose to work with them." He shook his head. "We can have no military victory without a moral victory. This, I insist on. I will not—_cannot_—condone, or even ignore, the vile acts which our fellow loyalists have been accused of committing." He clenched a fist. "I'd prefer to lose. Understand? I'd rather let the demolitionists destroy it all, then give even the slightest hint of credibility to those vicious creatures who seek to follow in Kreissack's footsteps."

He had not raised his voice, but his quiet vehemence seemed to shock them. "Uh... yessir. My apologies," Sanna spoke after some time.

_Maybe too far_. "Don't apologize for giving advice. But now you know."

"If that is the view you're going to take," Nielsen stated, "you will have to address the Hellrazer raids, preferably before the Avenger Guard decides to get into the act."

"Yes." Milano nodded. "We will."

* * *

"I don't like it. There's been a lot of new equipment streaming in, and no visible security. They could've snuck in any number of infantry, and there's plenty of room inside the depot to assemble HAR parts. And you're still thinking of hitting it?" 

Jean-Paul closed his eyes. "Misty, I told you, I agree that it looks suspicious. But what happens if we don't hit them? They learn that they can protect a facility by just moving in more equipment and hiding it, whether they have any actual security increases or not. They free up troops for other missions, and we lose what's presently our best source of supplies."

"Stupid," she growled.

"Both the options are pretty bad," he agreed with resignation.

"At least send HARs this time."

"Now who's stupid?" he snapped, harsher than he'd meant to. Then, a little more gently, "You're really going to tell me they may have increased their HAR coverage so now, of all times, we should throw our own HARs at them to get wrecked?"

The Hellrazers had seen a string of great successes against Milano's forces, who had suddenly been stretched thin on Luna by the addition of so many new people and facilities, but no command structure to tell them what to do. It had been simplicity itself to sneak small infantry teams into depots, shoot up the guards, and kill the pilots while they remained 'safely' jacked into their HARs.

Jean-Paul had been along on several of these missions, mostly to offer new tactical options in case something went wrong (it certainly wasn't for his skill with a firearm). He'd been pressing for less dead and more disarmed and sent home—not for any great love of the loyalists, but because _he_, at least, realized it would be a bad idea to convince Milano he ought to be fighting the Hellrazers rather than the other loyalists.

Unfortunately, it looked like Milano had decided that anyway.

"Then you stay here. We can't afford to lose you."

Jean-Paul shook his head to Misty's suggestion. "Unacceptable. We can't have any contact with the base after reaching the depot, and we can hardly work out a strategy until we know the situation. So I have to go."

"If you think you're the only person here who can make up a strategy, you just proved my point."

Ouch. He'd walked right into that one. _I'm supposed to be the smart one here, dammit_. "This is too important, I have to be there!"

She sighed, and he knew he'd won this argument. Just like most of them. "Fine, go, if that's what you think you have to do. But I'm coming with you."

_Oh for the love of_... "No you're not."

"Well why not? If you can go, surely I can."

Scowl. "Because you're actually _needed_ here, I'm just sort of sitting around until they find a use for me. Besides." He turned. "You don't know how to fight." Accurate, but still a low blow, and he heard her snarl. "Misty, stay here. That's an order."

War notwithstanding, she was still working for him, and her eyes blazed with fury but she nodded. "Yes. Sir."


	33. Defiance

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 32: Defiance

* * *

_Not a bad location_, Jean-Paul mused as he studied the supply depot. _We might want to hold this one_. Not likely, but he'd at least suggest it. The crater was not large, but the walls were steep—between the geography and concerns about stealth, it had taken the Hellrazer raid team nearly three hours to clear them and get into position. There was a tunnel, of course, at the base of the crater wall to the south, to grant easier access for the people who actually owned the facility. It was no help to them, though—shooting up security in the tunnel would most definitely ruin the element of surprise. 

They'd taken a slightly larger team than usual, and this time all of them were wearing power armor. The only reason Jean-Paul had consented to wear one of the suits was that it wasn't WAR's junk... though 'officially' staying out of the war, independent Greenland was managing to supply demolitionist factions with quite a bit of hardware. Lacking resources to build large HAR forces, most independent nations had poured far more R&D money into armor than WAR would ever dream of.

He still found the Icebreaker suit uncomfortable, and would have preferred to go in without the metal restricting his movement. _Bet I'll change my tune pretty fast when the shooting starts_.

"Five more minutes," the team leader, Zhang, reported. "New patrol's heading out."

Upon getting in position, it became immediately apparent that the depot had not been reinforced with HARs. Milano wasn't an idiot, and not once had the Hellrazers used the machines in their supply raids. The training camps yes, the supply posts no. On closer observation, it didn't even appear the HARs stationed there were active.

What the depot did have was infantry. They were crawling all over, patrols and sentries, armed techs and power armored enforcers. _Yeah, Milano's expecting us. And if those HARs are as shut down as they seem to be, he's willing to risk a strike from another faction to get us._

That seemed uncharacteristic. Then again, considering the size of his force, Milano probably wasn't handling the strategic matters himself. Still. _Well, we wanted to shake his confidence, and if he's going this far, it worked_.

"Still no sign of HAR activity. Definitely a trap."

"Figure that out all on your own?"

"Keep the channels clear," Zhang snapped. "Three minutes."

* * *

Misty watched the feeds and sighed. _So close, and yet so far_. She'd managed to get permission to come to the Hellrazer outpost nearest the targeted depot, where the raiders' HARs were kept along with the transports which would recover the captured supplies. Unlike larger factions, they had no real need to hold facilities which were little more than glorified warehouses—supplies were taken back to Xi or the forward bases, and used almost as quickly as they were taken. 

The Hellrazers made little attempt to preserve their equipment, and cycled what they did have. Reports from agents in other factions reported that, due to this strategy, their forces were estimated by their enemies to be nearly four times greater than what they really had. _Which is all good until someone decides to attack us, and brings what they think is sufficient force_. She was pretty sure that was inevitable, and pretty sure she didn't want to be in the area when it happened.

The scout drones had yet to be sighted by the forces guarding the targeted depot. That, in itself, was proof the HARs were shut down, at least for the moment—the machines tended to have much better sensor packages than anything infantry could pack. More importantly, they had the range to cover the blind spot between an outpost's ground-bound and aerial radar systems, which was the area the drones were currently circling in.

If only they could risk direct communications... no. Misty was aware that was impossible. But as she continued to watch the monitors, she greatly disliked the odds.

"What do you think their chances are?" one of the sensor techs inquired of his companion. They were ignoring her. That was fine. "If it were up to me I think I'd be heading off in search of easier prey right about now."

"Surely not."

"Well, it looks buttoned up pretty tight."

"You ever seen these Greenie armors in action? They make WAR's stuff look like it's made out of tissue paper. Quality over quantity."

"When you've got enough quantity, that argument stops working."

Shrug. "I'd say their chances are better than even."

Misty walked away. "Better than even" didn't make her feel a lot more confident. _He's going to get himself killed, and I'm sitting here watching_.

She entered the HAR bay and marched straight up to the crimson Shadow in its berth, and kicked it. Hard. Hard enough to hurt her foot, actually. "Gemini," she spat. "Egotistical..." Kick. "Spoiled..." Kick. "Immoral..." Kick. "Superficial!" Kick. Then another kick, just for good measure.

Had anyone asked her how 'immoral' and 'superficial' fit into the current situation, she wasn't certain she could have answered, but surely the sheer amount of _ego_ involved would make up for the difference. Misty turned, ready to head back to her small room and see how many bones she'd just broken in her foot. Then she paused. Looked back at the Shadow, and the helmet on the jack table next to it.

She smiled.

* * *

"Go." 

There were twenty armored warriors in the Hellrazers team, and Jean-Paul estimated well over a hundred guards—though most wore simple body armor, rather than one of the powered suits, making the equivalence a bit less. They were also working in packs, which made them entirely too vulnerable to the shrapnel grenades the first five demolitionists threw as they sprinted in. Blood and metal fragments scattered everywhere, and all hell broke loose.

"Split up!" Zhang ordered. Jean-Paul nodded. No sense making the same stupid mistakes as Milano's people, many of whom were still operating in teams. _What did he do, send in all the rookies?_ He felt an impact on his right side and a warning indicator lit up. Incoming fire. _Nice to know_. He whirled on the source and fired.

The Icebreaker's main weapon was a laser cannon which covered the left arm, robbing the suit's wearer of any function with that hand other than pulling the trigger. Being left-handed, Jean-Paul had found this a bit annoying, until his first shot—the high-powered beam not only cored through the unarmored soldier firing on him, but continued and created a good-sized molten hole in the outpost's wall. _Not bad_.

One of the Hellrazers moved into a cluster of guards, shrapnel grenade in hand. The fragmentary weapon wouldn't do much more than bounce off the power armor, but to the unarmored troops around him... then the suit locked, unmoving. Even from here the whine of systems powering down was hard to miss.

Jean-Paul realized why the guards were staying in groups. "Don't get near them, they're carrying scramblers."

One of the others groaned as the armored figures scrambled to put distance between themselves and their enemies. "Our armored reputation precedes us?"

"Guess so."

The problem with the power armors the Hellrazers liked so much was that, when all was said and done, each suit was a machine. Sure, there was a person inside the suit to operate it, but the whole point of _power_ armor was that the suit's power cells were what made it move and function, not the muscles of whoever was wearing the half-ton of equipment.

As such, the scramblers which most militaries used to disrupt electronics would work to leave a power armor quite helpless. The armors were shielded as well as possible, enough to cancel out one or even two of the devices. Five in close proximity was something else entirely.

And Milano's people were charging. _Damn_.

"Plan?" Zhang asked over a private channel. "We're not going to be able to gun them all down before they reach us."

"Scatter," he answered immediately, arming his own grenade and wishing the suits carried more than one. "They'll have to either back off or pursue. If they back off, more grenades. If they pursue, be sure to give each other good shots at whoever's following you."

They backed off, but not before disabling another of the Hellrazer armors. Jean-Paul and two others threw grenades, and the troops started to retreat. For a moment it looked as if they were preparing for a mini guerilla campaign, a close-quarters fight for every foot of the compound, and that was a fight he was pretty certain the raiders did not want.

Then the warning came over the comms. "We've got new signals from inside the depot. Mechanized."

"HARs?"

"Nope, too small."

In the back of his mind, Jean-Paul remembered seeing a report that Milano's people had clashed with a Katsushai unit and won a great deal of military equipment from that encounter. His suspicions were confirmed a few seconds later when the first of the Katana-like Samurai armor suits came storming out of the compound.

"Retreat!" Zhang yelled. "Through the tunnel, even without worrying about stealth we won't have time to climb over the wall again—"

"No dice. Samurai in the tunnel."

"Dammit. Okay, up the cliffs. Maybe we'll get lucky."

The Hellrazers closed ranks as they went, firing as quickly as they could, but the damned loyalist armors just kept coming. Jean-Paul knew, if they could clear the crater, they were home free, as Samurai armors were built for close quarters combat and didn't have much in the way of ground speed.

He looked at the distances involved and gave them about a sixty percent chance.

* * *

Misty ran. She was close now, and the Shadow was able to pick up the same video feeds which she'd been watching in the base. The raiders were in bad shape. Very bad shape... 

_I warned him_.

No. That didn't matter now. Once he was safely away, she could tell him off as much as she pleased. Priorities.

The crater wall which caused such difficulty to armor and vehicles wasn't a particularly big deal for a HAR, and she cleared it quickly, coming over the edge just in time to see one of the raiders take a flurry of strikes from a Samurai and hit the ground in half a dozen smoking pieces.

It was quite impossible to tell which of the armored warriors was which, and while fearing the worst, Misty didn't allow herself to believe it. The Shadow crouched, jumped, turned in midair and began gathering nitrogen from the core.

What Jean-Paul had told her before leaving was true. Misty didn't really know how to _fight_, beyond some basic firearms courses which were mandatory at WAR. She'd never trained for combat. But as a tech, she most certainly had trained in HARs, for hours and hours on end... and once one knew the functions of one of the great machines, it didn't take too much to apply the knowledge to a combat situation.

An ice blast shot out and caught several of the Samurai as they rushed up the rocky slope, and Misty hoped their wearers had died quickly—their deaths were not questioned, only the speed. She couldn't imagine being doused in liquid nitrogen was a good way to go. But then she remembered the Icebreaker she'd seen die, and refocused.

_I am not here to show mercy to the enemy. I'm here to save my boss_.

Her time working with the Shadow had more or less adjusted her to the pain of casting projections, though she'd never reached the concentration required to release more than one at a time. One shot out now, placing itself between Milano's troops and the raiders, kicking a few of the loyalist troops back down into the crater before fading.

A few of the Hellrazers had hesitated and turned, training their weapons on the enemies that were still left, and she opened a channel to them. "Don't stop, you idiots, MOVE! I'm not going to be able to hold them forever!" _Too true_. Her sensors were already warning of the base's HARs powering up. _Odd that they weren't active already. Guess Milano is far too noble to use something as powerful as a HAR against targets as weak as power armors_... or maybe he just didn't want his people getting shot up as they lay helpless on the jack tables. Again.

A Pyros and a Shredder were coming at her back, but she ignored them in favor of the still-advancing Samurai. Milano must have picked up at least three dozen of the armors, and they were much better suited to _climbing_ than the bulkier Icebreakers. Another ice blast took out the ones scrambling up from the tunnel, but she couldn't use the nitrogen core too close to the raiders for fear of hitting her own side.

There was an indicator blinking in a corner of her vision, someone attempting to open a comm channel, and that made her feel better. It was almost certainly Jean-Paul trying to bitch her out, and that meant he wasn't dead. Nonetheless, she blocked the signal and focused on the fighting. The Shadow lunged and lashed out with one arm, letting the blades on the hand scythe through a pair of loyalists who'd gotten too close to the retreating Hellrazers.

First impact. The enemy HARs were in range. She continued to ignore them in favor of the armors. _Focus. Focus_. It wasn't exactly easy to ignore the pain as they tore into her, but she had a job to do.

The first of the Hellrazers cleared the crater.

Almost immediately, it appeared the base had been given new orders. The few remaining Samurai turned and began swarming her, which wouldn't have been that big a deal if she could focus on them. The HARs were not about to let her do that. And in that moment, Misty realized she had a slight problem. It had all seemed so easy when she'd come storming in, but she had no plan for getting _out_.

_Use the giant shadow._

_I don't know how._

_Think the same as a regular projection, just bigger._

_Is it that easy?_

_You'd better try it, or else your machine's going to be on the ground in several piece_s.

It was hard to argue with that. She concentrated. Beyond the pain of the continued loyalist attacks, she felt the distinct, tearing agony of a projection being released, only it seemed like it had been magnified far beyond normal. She remembered Jean-Paul's description of sending the giant shadow out, and knew she was succeeding... then something new flashed across her vision, a warning in large red block letters.

_Critical Failure: Shadow Projector_.

Something else hit her. A new warning.

_Critical Failure: Reactor Shielding. Explosion Imminent_.

It seemed she was staring at that message for a very long time. The machine ought to be trying to force her out, and she realized that her sudden detachment from the situation meant that it was. But there was no time. Not even the few seconds required for the gradual, safe removal of the pilot's consciousness from the machine.

Things were fading. She felt no more pain, and saw only darkness.


	34. Sacrifices

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 33: Sacrifices

* * *

There had been no word from Xi during the trip back, an enforced silence to reduce the risk of interception. Jean-Paul had ignored the rest of the team, and they'd taken the hint to leave him the hell alone.

So Gemini was gone. He sighed. There was no doubt in his mind that he would not acquire a new Shadow, so his usefulness to the Hellrazers would be lessened a bit while he adjusted to a new machine. They'd find him one, of course... he was still one of their best fighters... but it was an issue that could have been avoided.

_Dammit!_ He was going to give Misty one hell of a reaming. _Of all the times for you to ignore my orders, it has to get my HAR blown up when we were almost out anyway. I hope you have a headache for a month._

That was petty, but he didn't much care. He could feel a migraine of his own coming on, and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the transport's window. It was slightly more comfortable. That was really all he got out of the action of course... there was nothing to see on this part of Luna. Nothing, in fact, the whole trip back.

"I think we've made our point. Let's leave Milano's gang alone from now on," he suggested quietly.

Corwin glanced back at him. "No argument here."

Another of the Hellrazers, one whose voice he didn't know, spoke up. "Jean-Paul, are you okay?"

"Oh of course I'm okay," he hissed. The migraine was getting worse. "Never better."

"I can tell." Fortunately for the owner of the voice, he knew when to shut up and did so before Jean-Paul looked up to see whose head was about to be torn from his shoulders. The transport was cloaked in silence again—though a less comfortable silence now than before.

By the time they reached Xi, Jean-Paul's world was reduced to smears of light and a pain that varied in intensity, yet never came close to going away. He managed to fight his way through the agony, out of the transport... the sounds of movement as the other raiders disembarked nearly deafened him.

Working more from memory than his increasingly unreliable vision, he made it into the fortress and nearly to his quarters before running into any difficulty. The 'difficulty' he finally did encounter was named Cossette.

"Not now," he whispered.

She touched his arm. "You should go to the infirmary." Her voice was very soft and he recognized, as she said it, that he was standing right outside the med wing. She'd quite carefully chosen where to wait for him.

He kept moving. "I'm fine." Hellrazer doctors were still doctors, and he still didn't like them.

"You don't look fine."

Snarl. "I _will_ be fine," he amended, "soon as I get some rest and get my hands on a certain tech."

Jean-Paul heard her sharp intake of breath, sounding in his altered state rather like a gunshot, and flinched. "Go rest," she said, and even he could tell her voice was shaky. "Just rest..."

Rest sounded so good, but he could not rest now. Her worry wasn't difficult to pick up on, migraine or no, and he needed to know what was bothering her. He fought the pain. A few moments later he regretted it, barely able to stand—he felt her seize his arm, and was vaguely aware that she was pulling him back to the infirmary.

He was beyond caring. "Cossette..."

"Rest."

"Tell me what's wrong."

"You're sick."

"Tell me."

By now she was pushing him onto one of the beds, and he didn't have the strength to resist. Yes... he needed to sleep... but... "Cossette." His tone was pleading now.

She squeezed his hand. "You won't be talking to Misty again."

He started to ask what that meant, but before any words could escape he finally—mercifully—blacked out. Somewhere in the painful darkness, Cossette's statement fully registered... he kept hoping he had misheard, a distinct possibility, but cold dread filled his dreams regardless.

* * *

Milano watched the feed from the supply depot again and grimaced. Even seeing it for the third time, he couldn't quite make himself believe...

"There's no chance of a mistake?"

"No sir. There was only one Hellrazer HAR, and it couldn't have been one of our pilots. They all jacked out fine."

It had been a great victory, of course... the demolitionist faction had gone charging straight into their trap, apparently thinking that they could handle it. Were it not for Milano's fortunate victory in Katsushai, they probably would have. The scramblers had been a diversion, but it was the Samurai armors that had shattered the morale of the raiders—that much was glaringly obvious just from the video—and it had been a simple matter to turn that into military defeat.

Then the HAR had come. Even without its distinctive paint scheme, there was only one Shadow running around in this war. Now there were none.

It wasn't the destruction of the Shadow that bothered Milano, as it was powerful technology in the hands of an enemy, and so best disposed of. However, his people at the depot had succeeded in locking onto the HAR's neural waves, hoping to trace the signals back and locate the enemy staging point.

The Shadow hadn't lasted long enough for a complete trace, though they'd at least narrowed out down to a region. A large region, but it beat their previous guess of 'somewhere on Luna'. What was bothering Milano was that, with the tracing up, the neural spike in the HAR's final moments was painfully clear.

It was a miniscule chance. Experts placed it at somewhere around one time out of 450 that such abrupt breaking of the link would cause death. And it looked like the Shadow's pilot had won out.

_Jean-Paul_. He closed his eyes. _I'm sorry_.

* * *

Jean-Paul wasn't outside, as he usually was when he was in a bad mood. Or at least, if he was, he had ended up very far out... after her second sweep of the grounds Cossette decided this was unlikely and wheeled back into the fortress.

There were times Cossette wondered why she kept doing this. For someone so antisocial, he was damned high-maintenance. Yet... _it's there. I've seen it, no matter how hard he tries to fight. I will break through his walls. Because he needs me. And..._ She took a deep breath as she wheeled along. _I need him_.

Yes. She'd been trying to avoid admitting that for awhile now. She _needed_ Jean-Paul. More than ever, she needed someone who cared more about her mind than her body. Ratchet was a good friend, but their relationship could never be mistaken for love. In fact she wasn't certain she'd ever known love before. Only the superficial relationships of Arena celebrities.

She wasn't superficial anymore. Couldn't be. And Jean-Paul tended to shred shallow types simply by looking at them. If only he would accept that he didn't need his barriers with her, things would be perfect.

He was in his quarters, pretending to be asleep. He wasn't asleep, of course, she could tell by his flinch when she wheeled in. "Jean-Paul?"

"What."

He didn't open his eyes, let alone look at her, and his tone was dark and vicious. That was probably a bad sign, but... well, she was here now, and she'd known he wouldn't be thrilled with her once she started talking anyway. No sense turning back now. "You weren't at the funeral."

"Oh, you noticed?"

"I did."

"Good for you."

"So did just about everyone else."

"Good for them."

It wasn't easy to gauge Jean-Paul's moods, but she didn't think he was mad at _her_ so much as he was just plain mad. So she kept going. "She was your tech, and she gave up everything for you. Doesn't that deserve a goodbye?"

"I said goodbye," he answered immediately. "I said it when we left, along with, _don't interfere with the damn mission_. She chose to ignore orders." He finally opened his eyes. "I chose to ignore her funeral."

"That's... heartless."

"Oh?"

"She died saving your life."

"She was told not to risk that." His eyes flashed. "It was unnecessary. We probably would have gotten out as it was, and she just showed up to get herself killed, not to mention costing us a HAR."

A moment of disbelief. "If this is about your Shadow—"

"It's _not_ about my Shadow!" For an instant, his expression seemed to soften. "It's about her throwing her life away. I'm not going to mourn someone so eager to die."

Cossette sighed. "And every time you jacked in to fight, did you assume you were going to your death? Did you enter every battle planning to be hit by that tiny chance of fatal neural shock?"

"If you go charging, alone, into an enemy stronghold, you assume the worst. Or you're an idiot."

She fell silent for a time. His tone was giving away something important, something she knew his words would never betray. _All right. I've pushed him enough_. "...I understand."

"Is that so?"

She reached out and squeezed his hand. "That's so. I'll leave you to mourn alone, then... but you can come talk to me whenever you're ready."

Wheeling out, she dearly hoped she'd read that right.

* * *

_How the hell does she do that?_

Jean-Paul walked slowly down the corridor, heading for Cossette's quarters. She'd be expecting him, of course. Dammit, but she could see right through him... _because my masks are designed for lesser people_. If he was going to care for her because she was his equal, he'd better start treating her as one in other matters...

He stood outside her door for a good three minutes before he could make himself knock. Immediately it opened. Yes. She'd been waiting.

They stared at each other for awhile, then he sank down in a chair. "I miss her," he said softly. "Already."

Cossette nodded. "I know." She wheeled forward and hugged him.

He just let her hold him for some time, then was gripped by what he was certain must have been a fit of insanity. He kissed her. It wasn't much of a kiss, but enough that he drew back at once, mortified.

She arched an eyebrow. "That's a start." Despite the lightness of her words, her tone was very serious. "Are you going to be alright?"

Jean-Paul nodded, knowing there was more to that question than Misty or even their own situation. "I will be." He couldn't look at her. Not now. He stared at the floor, picked out patterns in the carpet, and thought. Remembered. Wondered. "I will be... but... I need you."

She did not seem surprised. "I know. And I'll be here."

"Always?"

"Always."

And despite himself, he believed her.

* * *

Lance moved like a shadow through the wreckage of Artemis, Taiga and Tundra trailing just behind him. _This guy is such a weirdo_. He didn't want to be out here, but his quarry had given him little choice.

_Listen to me, talking like I'm hunting someone_.

His movements were reasonably stealthy, certainly not silent, but effectively so considering who he was following. If anyone on the Hellrazers was less of a trained warrior than Lance, it was Michael Falks. He looked very nervous as he crept forward, but hadn't stopped to study his surroundings at all.

Lance could understand the reluctance to look around. Nobody had made any attempt to clean up Artemis since the massacre so many months ago... in the stillness of Luna, there was no stench of decay, as there ought to be in such a killing field. The wreckage was eerily preserved. In fact Lance wasn't spending much time looking around himself, confident that one of the cats would notice any approaching danger.

_What sort of danger am I expecting from a dead city?_

Up ahead, Falks stopped, fumbling with something from his pack. Lance ducked behind a large slab of concrete and waited.

"Yes... this is Chief Falks." A comm unit then. "Yes, of course. ...Ah, I've been through Artemis as you instructed. Yes, the center of the city." A long pause. "I was already aware of the costs of this war, but yes, I am more acutely acquainted with them now."

Taiga nudged his leg and he gave a quick scan of the area. Nothing seemed out of place. "Shhh," he whispered, though the cat's agitation added to his own unease.

Something in Falks' tone was far stronger than it had been for quite awhile. Perhaps whoever he was talking to had suggested he pay a visit to the ruins to strengthen his resolve... but Lance wasn't sure who among the Hellrazers would put him through that. His withdrawal, while a bit irritating, did not merit that kind of desperate measure. Besides, they had promised before even leaving Earth that the engineer wouldn't have to fight, so who would be trying to force him?

He'd ask Jay about it later. Surely he'd come up with something. _I'm here to observe, not to guess at motives_.

"Yes, I do think you were right. I wouldn't have come to this place if it didn't have _some_ merit. ...I think that may be pushing it a bit. ...No, that's fine. I'll help you. But I want to make it clear—"

Tundra hissed. Lance spun, his hand falling to a sidearm he'd only recently started to carry, and saw a flicker of motion darting back behind a pile of rubble. _Damn_. He drew the pistol, scratching Tundra behind the ears as he watched the offending space. _I might be in a bit of trouble now_. Even as he watched, he strained his ears to pick up anything more of Falks' conversation, but his heart was pounding too loudly for him to register anything from the outside.

After what seemed like a very long time, the motion came again, and a woman came into view. She, too, had a sidearm drawn. "Nice." Her eyes were dark and cruel. "I came for the old man, but waxing you oughta get me a good bonus. Or maybe I'll bring you in and let the boss talk to you."

Lance was pretty certain he did not want to talk to her boss, whoever that might be. "Think I'll pass." She had not raised her weapon, and he felt somewhat better for it, especially when his was trained over her chest. "Just back off."

"Hmph." Her eyes narrowed. "You really think that pretty little toy of yours is going to save you? Go ahead, kid. Shoot if you think you can. You ain't a warrior." She brushed her hair back. "You ain't got the nerve. Thought you might look brave, coming out here all alone, did you? You just look stupid." She was edging closer, though her movements were erratic.

At first that seemed strange, but then Lance realized she would prefer to capture him. Killing would be a last resort. And she seemed so _confident_... he had a feeling she could aim and fire in the same time it would take him to pull the trigger.

_All alone?_ He realized abruptly that the cats had disappeared from view. Not at all difficult for a pair of small felines in this tangled mess of wreckage. "You talk a lot," he answered finally. "Seems like a bad habit for an assassin."

She grinned, still edging towards him. "You think? It's always fun to have a little talk with the target before slitting their throat. Used to be, they'd be too scared to move, even when all we wanted to do is chat. Good times. Can't do it much anymore... thanks to punks like _you_ knocking us out of our rightful place."

_The board, then_. He had to fire without warning. He'd finally realized that the assassin's weapon was in fact aimed, very carefully, at his leg—unless he managed an immediately fatal shot, she'd at least cripple him, perhaps finishing him with a second shot, or maybe just leaving him to die in the midst of the dead city.

Lance decided he had better things to do today than die. "Punks like me? You think? Better blame Kreissack for that. He's the one that threw his brain in a walking trash can."

"No doubt the old guy was a little nutty, but hey, aren't we all." She continued to creep forward. _Getting too close_. "Now you just come with me. Nice and quiet-like."

He saw it only at the last second, though he'd known it was coming ever since noticing the cats were gone. The assassin, facing the wrong way, never heard them. It was one thing to be a human well trained in the arts of stealth, quite another to be a ten-pound animal built for the purpose.

The weight of two felines as they landed on her back knocked the assassin's aim off, just slightly. Lance heard the shot, felt searing heat and pain grazing his thigh, but there was no time to worry about that. He fired. Twice. Three times. Four. Maybe overkill, but in this situation he wasn't going to take any chances. He heard the assassin's weapon again, but didn't feel a hit. _Thank god for small favors_. One more shot and he collapsed as his injured leg finally gave out. _Got to get up. Turn. Shoot again. Can't lie here. Where is she?_

A horrible, shrieking laugh snapped him from the fog of war. "Oh beautiful! The mighty Hellrazers are enlisting small fuzzy animals now." The assassin coughed a few times and Lance could hear splashes. His leg wouldn't move, but he managed to twist and see blood running along the ground near her head. "You bastard. We'll get you." She gave that awful laugh again. "You and your little cats too!"

He shot her again. This time, it shut her up.

"Lance!"

He looked up and saw Falks coming around a pile of debris, staring at the grisly scene in shock. "Lance, what—"

"Saw you leave. Was worried. Tracked you here. Wasn't the only one. Assassin. Said she was after you." His tunnel vision fading, he became aware of a new noise, a screeching as terrible as any laugh the assassin had given. He tried to stand and his leg gave out again. "Hell. ...She tried to capture me, but the cats distracted her. She shot me once. I shot her more than that."

Falks was quiet for a minute. "I just came out here to... ah... get motivated. She was here for me?"

"That's what she said."

His response was something slightly different than fear, though Lance couldn't place it exactly. Then the engineer reached down and helped him to stand, and he looked at where the cats had landed after leaping on the assassin. Tundra was lying at the edge of the pool of blood, screaming as only a cat could scream, and Taiga was licking blood off her sister's left forepaw.

_Oh god_. Lance stared blankly at the two animals. His initial assessment was off. What Taiga was licking was the stump that _used_ to be Tundra's paw. His eyes suddenly went icy as everything faded away—no WAR, no Alaska, no Artemis, only snow-white fur stained with crimson blood. "Falks."

"Yes?" The older man had already moved forward and gathered the injured feline in his arms.

"You said you wanted motivation."

"Ah... yes, that's why I—"

"You can have some of mine." Lance kicked the assassin's body as he passed. "I've suddenly got plenty to spare."


	35. Unstable State

**Brilliance and Bitterness  
**Chapter 34: Unstable State

* * *

Steffan paced his quarters, restless. He had long ago memorized the layout of the small outpost, but it wasn't so easy to work out if he was a prisoner or an honored guest. Even Angel's people couldn't seem to decide.

Sometimes he wasn't sure he ought to even think of them as _people_—he felt they might consider that an insult.

He'd gotten the basics from Angel herself, not long after arriving to this place. Not much more than the basics—only that they were of an alien race called the Tanmari. A psychic alien race, no less. (She didn't like the word "psychic," but Steffan simply couldn't make "the Ability" have the same significance to him as it clearly held to them.) And they wanted his help to keep humans off of their world of Ganymede.

"How did I get mixed up in this?" he sighed to the empty room. The idea that he might be overheard didn't bother him. That was just as much a risk thinking as speaking... hell, with the mindset of the Tanmari, speaking might have been safer. He laid on his bed and let out a deep breath. "This is insane."

He was left alone with that thought for some time but soon enough he heard a knock on the door. "Steffan?" The Tanmari voice stumbled over his name.

"Yeah?"

"We would like to speak with you, if you are amenable."

"Sure." He stood and opened the door. "What's up?"

The gray-eyed Tanmari gave him the searching look he'd grown quite accustomed to lately. His name was Falcon, and of Angel's half-dozen commandos he seemed to dislike Steffan the least—while not hostile, the rest of the alien beings were clearly uneasy having a human in their midst. His attitude was probably why he got stuck playing messenger. "Just a briefing, but an important one. Change is in the winds..."

Angel had mentioned that Tanmari had little grasp of human metaphor, but Falcon was certainly enjoying what he'd learned of it. Steffan grinned. "Sure, I'm coming."

* * *

Lance walked through the hallways, anger burning in his eyes. The Hellrazers, obviously, didn't have much in the way of a qualified veterinary staff, but Tundra was getting the best care possible from these facilities. It was frightening—not to mention depressing—to see the little animal lying on a human's infirmary bed, hooked up to a few machines and sleeping. Always sleeping. Several times a day he went in and simply rested a hand on her side to be sure she was still breathing.

It had been two weeks.

He reached his destination soon enough. The infirmary again. He just sat there, with Taiga on his lap, ignoring everything that happened around him.

_I shouldn't have followed Falks out there_, he told himself. _Should've let the assassin get him. He's just a liability anyway, just dragging us down_. It wasn't the first time Lance had entertained such thoughts and he always berated himself later for the idea that saving the engineer's life hadn't been worth it. But it made him feel better now. _If I hadn't been out there Tundra would be fine_. It was strangely easier to blame it on Falks than on the assassin. Maybe because the assassin was dead. He couldn't reach her anymore...

He felt someone touch his shoulder and jumped, too lost in his thoughts to have heard the approach. "Lance?"

Frown. "Hi Jay." Not actually the person he wanted to see right now—well, he didn't really want to see anyone. But it would be too easy... _Jay's the one that told me to keep an eye on Falks. No. I was the one who brought it up in the first place. I can't blame him. I must not. _"What're you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

_Well that doesn't sound good_. "Really?"

"What _else_ would I be doing here?"

"Good question. I was hoping there'd be an answer."

Rather than a response Lance felt himself being dragged into a more or less standing position. "Come on," his old friend ordered, "you're not helping her by sitting there moping. Get out of here and let the doctors work."

Lance's temper flared and he shook the taller man off, turning to glare up at him. "I know," he growled, "that I did NOT just hear Jean-Paul Delaney lecture me on behaving for the doctors!"

There was silence for a time, during which Lance looked into Jean-Paul's emerald eyes and saw clearly that this was not the quiet but generally amiable youth he'd spent four years of school with. This was a darker presence, a man hardened by both WAR and war, one who—unlike Lance—wasn't showing any signs of difficulty coping with the new chaos. He flinched, bracing himself for something really horrible to happen.

What he wasn't expecting was to be laughed at.

"All right." Jean-Paul's voice was warm, if his eyes were not. "Point to you. However, I'm going to exercise a blatant double standard and make you get out of here anyway." He hesitated for a moment and his smile became sad. "It's been a long time since you called me that."

"Since I called you..." Lance blinked. He hadn't really thought about it. "Oh." Personally, he couldn't remember the last time he'd called Jay by his full name, though he was sure the other man would remember it perfectly. "Sorry Jay."

Shrug. "It isn't exactly something to be sorry about. However..." His expression was almost questioning. "Come on, Lance. Let's talk."

Lance _did_ remember the last time he'd heard those words come out of Jay's mouth. They had been followed by a very painful conversation. "I don't like it when you want to talk."

Silence. Then, a very soft admission. "Neither do I."

* * *

"What do you mean you're LEAVING TOMORROW?"

"I didn't realize the concept was that difficult. Leaving. Going away. Not going to be here anymore. As of tomorrow, which is the day after today, a period of 24 h—"

"Enough already, I get it."

Jean-Paul turned away and stared out the window. _Be nice. It's not his fault you have to go_. "That was too harsh. Sorry."

"No worries." Lance was sprawled in the middle of the floor, staring up at Jean-Paul perched on the windowsill. "I just..." He sighed. "What about the Wolves?"

"Wolves?"

Lance sighed much more loudly, then rolled over and crossed his arms. "Yes, Jay. The North Slope Wolves. You know... the hockey team... been here for about six years? The one we were gonna go try out for after college? _Those_ Wolves."

"Oh. Yes. Them." The emerald-eyed youth did not look at his roommate. "I don't actually remember saying I would go along with that idea..."

"You never said you _wouldn't_, either. You could've just said no. How long have you known you had to leave... on the damn morning after graduation?"

He'd been dreading that question for years now, but now that it had finally come up, it was surprisingly easy to answer. "For the last four years. I was supposed to be leaving after high school graduation. Joining the hockey team bought me four more years here, since the sport's outlawed in WAR territory. But I've known for quite awhile."

"And you couldn't be bothered to tell me this until now?"

Jean-Paul met Lance's cerulean gaze. "This is Alaska, Lance. What was I supposed to do? Tell you I'm a ward of WAR and have you hating me from the start, or save it so you don't hate me until I'm leaving?"

Lance had had no answer for that. He still didn't have one.

* * *

The conference room seemed very small, though Jean-Paul knew it could comfortably seat twelve—as it had for many briefings lately. He sat in the closest chair to the door, and his companion did not sit at all.

"Okay, so you got me out of the med wing. Now will you tell me what's up?"

"I wanted to apologize." _I'm doing this too much lately_. "There was no reason to send you to watch Falks. That should've been my job." He sighed. "I wasn't thinking."

"Hmph." Lance laughed, entirely without humor. "I feel like I should be insulted. You really want me to believe there's ever a time that you aren't thinking? But that's okay, because I _have_ been." He moved around the table and dropped into a chair on the other side. "I've been hunting like hell for someone to blame in this. I keep coming back to you." He shook his head. "I keep coming back to the fact that I'm the one who brought it up, and convinced you somebody needed to watch him. I all but asked for the job and you gave it to me. Why do you need to apologize for that?"

The look in Lance's eyes was challenging, just daring Jean-Paul to say something about giving jobs to people who weren't qualified for them. That had indeed been his first inclination. _But I'm really not that dumb_. "Fair enough."

"You have other things to apologize for, though."

"I suspect I know where this is going."_ In fact, I'm rather smart_.

"I'm sure you do." Lance put his head down on the table and stared into the splintered wooden surface. He was quiet for awhile. Then, "I have to admit... I never really expected you to disappear that day. Even though you said you would. Even after the argument we had about the Wolves. When I got back to our room and you were gone, it still surprised me. I don't know why." He sighed. "Maybe because I knew you were a genius. I knew it Jay, I just _knew_ you'd find some way to get out of it."

Jean-Paul closed his eyes and remained silent. Until the morning in question, he'd thought the same thing. But no. For all his intelligence, he could not stand against WAR alone. Not then. Not now.

"Then I left too. You know that. I didn't go to the Wolves, even though they'd offered me a roster spot. I wanted to. But every game, every practice, you would not have been there and I would have remembered the lie. I didn't want that."

There was a pause. Maybe Lance wanted him to say something, but there was no response he could make to that. He was surprised to find he felt guilty... a slight nod indicated for Lance to continue.

"I don't know why I left the country. I guess I'd just always assumed that Alaska was beyond WAR's reach. But then they made you leave... when I had that illusion shattered I just didn't know what else to do. So I left." He looked up, meeting Jean-Paul's eyes for the instant his old friend allowed it. "And somehow I ended up in Colorado, within viewing distance of WAR's primary fortress. Sometimes I wondered if I was following you. Or maybe I was just mocking the company. Tempting fate. I don't know." He sighed deeply. "Then you showed up with Taiga. Just literally walked up to my door and said hello. What were the chances? I couldn't be angry. I'd been waiting so long to confront you about lying to me, and when I had the chance we both pretended it never happened."

"That we did." Jean-Paul still wasn't sure what else to say, assuming there was anything that could be said. At the time he'd been so wrapped up in his own sadness and anger. It was hurting _him_ to leave Alaska, but why the hell should it matter to anyone else? He'd regretted lying to Lance, but he'd refused to dwell on it. No petty personal feelings could get in the way of his mission.

He thought of Cossette and realized he'd abandoned that line of thought. _So why didn't I think of this myself? ...Because I had no damn idea it bothered him that much._ "Lance..."

"Yeah?"

"Why did it matter?"

Lance was quiet for a time. Then he shook his head. "Because you were always there. You know how much my parents traveled. I didn't realize for a long time that you didn't _have_ any other friends—I just knew that you were the one person I could rely on. We got older. People got more mature and weren't terrified of you just because you were smart. But you were still always there and maybe I took that for granted. I always knew eventually we'd go our separate ways. But when it happened so quickly..."

Jean-Paul grimaced. _And if I'd just warned you ahead of time, you would've had plenty of time to adjust to the idea that your friend was going to be gone. And you've been carrying this with you for five years. God. Here I thought I was the lonely one_.

"And now we have a war, and here I am."

"Here you are." Jean-Paul met Lance's gaze. "Do you want to leave?"

"No!" Even Lance seemed surprised by his vehemence. "I'm definitely not leaving now. Not after what they did to Tundra. ...I don't think I even would've left before. But definitely not now." His blue eyes blazed with ferocity. "I don't have the same personal enmity you do. But I did grow up in that climate of fear. I still hate WAR."

Jean-Paul nodded his understanding. "Then what do you want from me?"

There was a long silence between them, long enough to be very uncomfortable. Then Lance sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know Jay. I don't know." His voice was soft. "After all this time I've been waiting to make you apologize, I don't think I want you to."

Now _that_ was surprising. "You don't?"

"No." A noise that might've been a laugh. Then again, it might've been a sob. "If you apologize... I have to accept it. Or not. I don't know if I can. But I don't think I can refuse to either. I can't do that to you. You were... you are my best friend."

Jean-Paul stood and walked around the table "Lance." He knelt next to his old friend and tried to think of the right words, but they would not come. _Sensei would tell me not to think. He'd tell me to say... what I feel_. "I was selfish, and I was wrong. Looking back it all seems so clear, but it wasn't clear at all at the time. ...I'm sorry, Lance."

"I told you not to apologize."

"Too late. Shall I apologize for apologizing?" Jean-Paul smiled, but Lance wasn't looking at him and the expression was wasted. "Decide if you can accept it, Lance. Decide for your own sake and not mine. I'll be here either way, until you tell me we are no longer friends." _I owe you that much. And... even though it's always surprised me, I like you that much_.

For awhile he wasn't sure if he'd gotten through, if he'd angered Lance or helped him or hurt him. Then the blond man raised his head. "You are very different, Jay."

"I know."

"Cossette's a good influence on you."

Jean-Paul's eyes widened. He hadn't exactly expected 'different' to be a good thing, and he hadn't expected... "I... didn't realize that was common knowledge."

"It's not. It's just blatantly obvious to someone who's known you for twenty years and lived with you for four of them."

"Oh. Is that it."

"Yep." Lance smiled. It wasn't his most convincing smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. "So are we done? Can I go back and check on Tundra now?"

For a moment or two, Jean-Paul was going to lecture him on behaving for the doctors again, but something made him reconsider. Maybe the realization that for Lance, at least, a very significant and painful memory had just been remedied. For him... perhaps it was proof that he could show compassion without being prodded by nightmares. Yet the trend worried him. _Am I going to spend the rest of my life apologizing for past mistakes? _

"Jay?"

He shifted his attention back to the present, and nodded. "Go on."

Lance left without another word, leaving Jean-Paul to stare at the table, eyes cold. _Now that that's out of the way_... he was glad to have the matter resolved, even if he hadn't realized it needed resolving. But now that he no longer had that issue to worry about, other issues were coming to mind.

Such as why the hell Falks had been in Artemis to begin with, and set this whole thing off.

_My turn to do some investigating_.

* * *

Tanmari meetings were really very weird, Steffan had decided. They didn't talk to each other—not even for the benefit of their human companion, Falcon usually relayed all the key points to him. In fact, they weren't always even in the same room. The fact that they were all present for _this_ meeting would have told Steffan it was very important, even if his guide hadn't told him so.

He sat in the uncomfortable silence for a minute or two before the first explanation came to him. And it wasn't from Falcon—it was from Angel.

_Much has changed in the politics of the human war since we first brought you here. The one called Milano has become powerful, but he is also a target. Others operate with impunity while he and his people become the focus of all violence. _

Steffan nodded. "From the reports I've seen, his side is strong, but not strong enough to stand up to the pounding they're taking."

_Yes. This is not acceptable._

"Huh?" Though it was clear the Tanmari were a side of their own in the conflict, they'd so far seemed to sympathize with demolitionist ideals. "I thought you wanted the loyalists to lose?"

_We wish for those who will leave our moon to triumph. It is true that all of the loyalists, as you call them, will eventually use WAR's power to encroach upon our world once more, and so we would prefer to see those called demolitionists ultimately succeed. But the cooperation between the other loyalist factions is worrying_.

"Oh. I see," Steffan nodded, not seeing at all.

_We have taken the liberty of undermining this cooperation_. Angel's eyes met his. _Last night, commandos from Raven's organization struck at one of the major bases belonging to the old board. Raven's people deny any knowledge of it, of course_.

Steffan's eyes widened. "Nice." He'd known the Tanmari detachment had some military capacity, but he hadn't realized they were actually attacking things. "So uh... what's that got to do with me?"

One of the other Tanmari, Iris, smiled. "Nothing, and everything."

It was the fact that she'd actually _spoken_ which startled him, there was nothing too spectacular about what she'd said. "Um."

"We are going to attack them again. This time we need you to lead. Return to them, the hero who assassinated WAR's leader and was kept a month in their prisons before escaping." Her eyes glinted. "This will be a delicate operation. Nobody must recognize you who will have a voice when this war is over—or the neutrality which is your great asset will be lost. We will do our best to ensure that does not happen. But we must get close to their leadership to strike a decisive blow, and this is the best way to do so."

Later, Steffan would decide that this strategy made sense. Right now all he saw was Deluna's smirking face 'offering' him the mission to assassinate Shirro, and how much he'd like to see that face blown off... he nodded. "Count me in."


End file.
